


52 Hertz

by onawingandaswear



Series: NHL!Bitty AU [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: (consider this an AU of an AU), (different from the NHL!Bitty series I already posted to tumblr), Anxiety, Bitty...uh...sows his oats in this one, Bitty/Tater isn't endgame just a one off, Closeted Characters, Falconers!Bitty, Falconers!Jack, Initially inspired by the idea of and openly gay Bitty in the NHL attracting closeted players, Jack comes to terms with his own insecurities, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining, Post-Graduation, References to overdose, Rehabilitation, Schooners!Bitty, Trades, What if Jack knew and didn't do anything, and then it evolved into something more serious, nhl!Bitty, no kiss au, references to one night stands, what if Bitty had the chance to go pro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-04-19 10:06:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14234943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onawingandaswear/pseuds/onawingandaswear
Summary: In which Jack doesn't find the courage to confess his love at graduation and Bitty only complicates things by becoming the first out player in the NHL.________In the end, it’s pretty anticlimactic. The Falcs are defending divisional champions and the Schooners are coming out of an extremely rough rebuild year with the third worst record in the league. Providence pulls out a 3-1 win in regulation, the only Seattle goal belonging to Eric; a gorgeous snipe in the third that had Jack reflexively cheering from the Falconers bench — something Jack knows immediately will be a highlight more vaulted than the goal itself.At the end of regulation, Jack hangs back to catch Bittle before he's ushered off the ice, pulling him into a tight hug that makes the remaining Schooners fans go wild. “Good game, Bits,” he knocks his helmet against Bittle’s and tries to ignore the immediate camera flashes. This was always the plan: two marketing departments eager to dominate the news cycle; It isn't hard to fake enthusiasm because right now Eric Bittle is a perfect amalgamation of Jack’s two favorite things in the whole world: hockey and handsome blondes.“Great game, Jack,” Bitty laughs._________





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heyfightme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyfightme/gifts), [Omgpieplease (SceneryTurnedWicked)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SceneryTurnedWicked/gifts), [Peachville1982](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Peachville1982).



> Big shoutout to Peachville1982 sending an ask like a year ago about NHL!Bitty amassing a harem of gay NHL players because it turned into this. I kinda did it!

**I.**

 

When Jack is seventeen and just a little drunk his boyfriend tells him a story about a ghost whale; except, Kenny is wasted and the story isn’t about a giant sea monster, rather, a lonely Blue Whale that vocalizes at a such a high frequency no other whales can communicate with it. Kenny talks about mutations, genetics, natural selection, but Jack’s lost in his drink, spiraling around thoughts of an existence where something _(someone)_ could be so terribly cursed, serving no purpose, waiting to die, alone, because of a stutter in the rhythm of natural selection.

“52-Hertz,” Kenny snuggles in close, and Jack clings tightly to him. Too tightly. “That’s the whale’s frequency.”

The number burrows into Jack’s brain the way so many of his unwelcome thoughts do. He tells himself he’s not alone. He has a voice. He has friends. A boyfriend. Money. A future.He’s not a stupid mutated whale.  Still, 52-Hertz becomes something of an accidental mantra. 

When he tells his doctor his medication isn’t working and gets a higher prescription dose instead of a follow up: 52-Hertz. When no one responds when he brings up bypassing the draft and signing in free agency: 52-Hertz. When his father spends more time talking to commentators and his friends about Jack’s future than he does Jack: 52-Hertz.

All failures in communication aren’t inherently Jack’s fault because he’s speaking at a frequency no one can hear, and like most things in Jack’s life this strategy works wonders right up to the moment it doesn’t.

Less than a year later, when Kent is lighting up Las Vegas and Jack is wearing soft clothing sitting in a sharing circle filled with unfamiliar faces, Jack will talk about feeling like people don’t hear him. Won’t listen. Can’t listen.

Rehab scares the frequency crutch away for a little while. Long enough Jack can come out to his parents. Make the decision to go to college. Get back on the ice and start to rebuild himself. He’s whole again. He doesn’t know for how long but he’ll take what he can get. He falls in love with his major, his team, and eventually, he feels like he’s finally ready to try again and embrace his second chance at the NHL.

He finishes his senior thesis. He signs with the Providence Falconers.

Somewhere in there, he starts to feel things for one of his teammates. A teammate five years his junior living his life at a speed Jack’s never felt safe enough to reach. He’s bright and open and Jack compartmentalizes his affection the same way he tucks away stats and plays. Valuable information for another time, another stage of life.

That time doesn’t come before graduation. So when Jack pulls Bitty into a tight hug and lingers long enough he knows neither will forget the feeling, Bittle lays a hand on his chest and says goodbye like it’s the hardest thing in the world. 

Bittle is warm in his arms. His phone is hot in his pocket. He takes this moment for himself. They separate and Jack wants to say, _Don’t cry, I’ll see you again._ Of, course, he doesn't.  Over Bittle’s shoulder, Jack can see his parents are being accosted by a number of other parents for pictures. He has a meeting in Providence in four hours. 

He wants to do a lot of things but growth comes in baby steps these days. Washed up has-beens don’t change the world: Providence is his future and Jack has plans. A Stanley Cup by 30. A family by 40.

The middle step? The gap between glory and contentment? He hasn’t quite figured that out yet. 

He lets Bittle go, watches him walk away, knowing he’s letting something precious slip away but he’s too much of a coward to risk his memories on an uncertainty. His father asks him if he needs more time to say goodbye and Jack fights the urge to say yes. He slides off his graduation cap as they head to the car, wraps his Honors sash around his wrist like a glove, and tries not to look back.

 

* * *

Somewhere, Jack forgets to stay in contact.

 

* * *

 

 

**II.**

 

Two months before Samwell sweeps the Frozen Four, Jack finally _(finally!)_ gets ahold of Bitty’s youtube handle.

He almost misses it -- buried deep in the muted SMH group chat he’s never felt the need to remove himself from -- but Ransom insisted that Bittle’s ego needed to be tempered and shared it with the whole team. Jack binges four years of updates in two weeks between practices, meals, on the plane during away games; he doesn’t just find the time, he makes time. His teammates chirp him quite a bit at first, buying his excuse that he wants to learn how to bake, but really Jack just misses his friends; the Samwell family that helped rebuild him strong enough to stand a chance in the NHL.

He tries to ignore the tightness in his chest when a much younger Bittle laments having ‘Jack Zimmermann’ for a captain and Jack has to remind himself that he apologized a long time ago for being a _‘hard-ass’_ ; Shitty’s words, not his. 

(Jack has a harder word for himself.)

He relishes watching Bittle’s confidence develop as the videos progress: the moment when ‘Jack’ becomes  _‘Jack’,_ the way his face and body change shape from slight to toned, the way he stops being afraid to talk about himself and the things that make him happy. Even though Jack was there for all of it, it’s beautiful to watch in such a condensed fashion.A small reminder of the home Jack built himself at Samwell.

Bittle is still one of Jack’s best friends and Jack lets himself live vicariously through Bitty’s videos, even if they haven’t spent much time together one-on-one since Jack moved to Providence.

It’s only when YouTube auto plays one update from Jack’s senior year that he realizes _exactly_ what he missed. 

It’s a quick personal upload with a low view count because Bittle isn’t actually baking anything, and right there in the middle is Bitty, his face buried in his flour-coated hands, lamenting _‘Never fall for a straight boy.’_

The image is familiar, and Jack is overcome trying to remember the context. Bittle liked someone? When? Who? 

Jack replays the previous video, then the one after, and Bitty mentions Jack passing Atley’s final with his poorly-latticed pies. Then he goes back again to Bitty’s confessional. The flour. The checkered shirt with the beige cardigan. They were baking together that day. Bitty was helping Jack with his project, and he’d tossed flour at Jack when they’d nearly collided in the small Haus kitchen, and Bitty’d said…

_Oh._ Huh.

“Was he talking about me?” Jack asks aloud, half hoping for a response of some kind to validate his discovery. Obviously, there's nothing. The gym is empty and Jack is alone with his revelation.

He climbs onto an elliptical and reframes that entire year in the context of  _‘maybe Bittle was attracted to me’_ , feeling slightly ill when he remembers he’s now almost three years removed from that moment in the kitchen. 

Bittle’s kept his distance since Jack graduated. Or maybe Jack was the one putting him at arm’s length. 

Later, he’ll finish the playlist. Watch the more recent ones featuring surprise appearances by Bittle’s _new_ boyfriend Will, a swimmer with a family vacation home in Cabo that implies beach parties, binge drinking, and unprotected sex. 

Things Jack doesn’t need to consider so soon after realizing that Eric Bittle was very possibly in love with him and _he missed it._

For now, he sets his incline percentage and ups the resistance, hoping the ache of a good workout will put his thoughts in order.

(It doesn’t.)

 

* * *

 

 

** III. **

 

Bitty manages something as Captain that Jack was never able to do. He takes Samwell all the way to the NCAA championship and _wins._

Jack can’t be there in person, hip deep in the Falconers own playoff run, but he’s so fucking proud he’s fit to burst. He tells the guys he’ll take them out to celebrate the next time he’s in town and tries not to think about how that won’t be until after school lets out and most of the Seniors (including Bittle) will have graduated and moved on.

Something else happens with the win. A wave of speculation from commentators and league officials that NHL teams are actively scouting Samwell’s graduating class and they’re focusing on Bittle as a top prospect.

Eric Bittle. 

Who is five feet, six and a half inches tall. 

Who used to be so afraid of checking he’d black out. 

Who is an out, gay man.

_‘Jack, I trust your judgment’,_ Bitty texts him out of the blue.  _‘I need to know if I’m doing the right thing here’_

Bittle doesn’t elaborate because he knows Jack’s been following the group chat. 

Jack spends weeks pouring over every article, scout report, and semi-reputable blog for any mention of Samwell or Eric Bittle. He approaches Bitty’s possible NHL career with almost as much focus as he did his own. 

He looks at Columbus. At Winnipeg. At Seattle. 

_‘You’ll be an invaluable asset no matter where you go. Any team would be lucky to have you.’_

What Jack doesn’t think to say: _‘Were you in love with me in college?’ ‘Come to Providence, I need to talk to you.’ ‘I miss you.’_

Jack offers up his own agent to help with contract negotiations only to find Bitty’s father has taken care of everything. Turns out a friend of the family is an agent with several Atlanta Falcons as clients and had a Thrasher or two to his name before the franchise move.

_(Jack still makes Phillipe look over the draft Bittle emails him, just in case.)_

They don’t talk about the Falconers as an option because Jack’s promotion to Alternate came with a bonus and promise of a contract renegotiation that would temporarily hit the team’s salary cap. As much as George might like to grab Eric, she can’t convince ownership to let go of anyone this year. It definitely hurts a little, knowing Jack can’t keep Bittle close in Providence, but it’s for the best. 

It has to be.

He wakes up one morning and stares down his reflection in the bathroom mirror. When his pent-up energy becomes too much, he does a stupid little dance and shakes out the tension in his arms.

Bittle’s being scouted. Holster is already in the AHL with the Sound Tigers. Chow is showing promise and may not finish school before he’s poached by a struggling Metropolitan team. These are _his_ boys. He can’t take credit for every success, but he’d be naive to think his name didn’t bring Samwell added scrutiny.

He’s _proud_ and he realizes he needs to say that. He is not a whale. He is a man. He needs to communicate. He snatches his phone from the nightstand and sends a message to Bittle before he loses his nerve.

Jack: _I’m so proud of you._

 

* * *

Bittle: […]

Bittle: […]

Bittle:  ❤️

 

 

* * *

 

** IV.  **

 

The SMH group chat is blowing up.

Jack hasn’t wanted to look at his phone since his father linked him a scathing article on the repercussions of Bittle being the first out pro hockey player. Hasn’t wanted to do much of anything, really, but he checks his notifications and learns, with little fanfare, that Bittle has signed a two-year contract with the Schooners. He’ll likely go to their farm team first but he’ll debut in Seattle. 

For all intents and purposes, Eric Bittle is now the first openly gay professional hockey player in League history.

He texts Bittle,  _‘Congratulations! Looking forward to beating Seattle this year!’_ and attaches a little confetti emoji. Jack thinks he should feel relief but he’s curiously numb; almost like he’s lost something he didn’t know he had. 

Bitty responds with,  _‘Looks like I’m not rooting for the Falconers anymore! Go Schooners!_ ’

Jack sends back a middle finger emoji, laughs, and thinks about just how much of the Falconers gear he gifted to the guys ended up with Bittle. It’s time to return the favor. A quick google search reveals there is already an option for custom Bittle jerseys in the Schooners’ team store — number 15, naturally — and Jack doesn’t think twice before buying one. 

He’s about to complete the purchase when he decides to go back and purchase several more for the SMH guys. And his parents. And Tater. He makes sure to hit yes on the _‘would you like to donate to You Can Play’_ button before taking a screenshot and sending it to Bitty.

_‘Go Schooners!’_ he texts, attaching the photo.

Bitty doesn’t respond immediately, but when he does he sends a photo of himself wearing Jack’s rookie Falcs jersey, the one he bought before Jack got the A. 

_‘You sweet thing! And I could never root against you, Jack. Go Falcs!’_

Jack stares at the photo for a long time. Bittle’s filled out since Junior year. He _looks_ like a professional hockey player. He _is_ a professional hockey player. 

(Jack’s heart goes pitter-patter.)

* * *

 

 

Two months later, Sports Illustrated puts Bittle on the cover in his Schooners gear, holding a stick wrapped in pride tape. 

Jack frames it in his office, right next to his diploma, his own SI feature, and thinks, _‘Maybe.’_

* * *

 

 

The first time Providence plays Seattle on the Schooners’ home turf the media is insane and focused largely on Jack.

The familiar narrative of old teammates reuniting is too much for the rank and file to ignore, especially with Jack facing off against the  _(gay)_ player he mentored. While not _quite_ as promoted as Jack’s first game against the Aces, the front office is already proposing a cross-country rivalry to drum up ticket sales.

In the end, it’s pretty anticlimactic. The Falcs are defending divisional champions and The Schooners are coming out of an extremely rough rebuild year with the third worst record in the division. It isn’t hard to see the growth potential with a crop of young guns, Bittle at the head, but regardless, Providence pulls out a 3-1 win in regulation — the only Seattle goal belonging to Eric. A gorgeous snipe in the third that had Jack reflexively cheering from the Falconers bench — something Jack knows immediately will be a highlight more vaulted than Bittle’s goal itself.

They don’t line up to shake hands anymore but Jack hangs back to make sure he’s able to catch Bitty before he’s ushered off the ice, pulling him into a tight hug that makes the remaining fans go wild.

“Great game, Jack,” Bitty laughs, red-faced and sweaty, mouthguard half hanging out of his mouth. Right now, Eric Bittle is a perfect amalgamation of Jack’s two favorite things in the whole world: hockey and handsome blondes. 

“Good game, Bits,” he knocks his helmet against Bittle’s and tries to ignore the immediate camera flashes. This was always the plan, two marketing departments eager to dominate the news cycle.

If he holds on a little too long, so be it. 

 

* * *

The next day, Jack’s publicist sends him a list of gossip sites posting pictures of the hug with predictable headlines like _‘Bittle and Zimmermann: more than friends?’_

His father pings him not long after, sending an emoticon of an upside-down smiley face.

“Papa, that can’t mean what you think it does,” Jack sighs before taking the half melted bag of ice off his knee and replying: _‘For once, not true.’_

His father doesn’t respond immediately, and instead, Jack drafts a response to his publicist telling her not to engage.

 

* * *

 

 

** V. **

 

There are rumors. Rumors of rumors, and all of them about Bittle.  Of course the first out hockey player is promiscuous, doesn’t matter that almost every rookie is always drunk on the same blend of hormones, cash, and fame. 

Jack doesn’t know what he’s expecting when he tags along to the Schooners favorite club and finds Bitty in the VIP section making out with some random guy under a wash of blinding strobe lights and hookah smoke. Hands are stroking thighs, fingers are tangled in hair, and jealousy coils like a white-hot snake in Jack's gut. It takes a minute to figure out who Bittle’s paramour is but it’s the chain that finally gives it away.  

_“Yo!”_ Jack sets Bitty’s beer down with more force than necessary, startling the two before announcing, _“It’s late, I’m going to head out.”_

Bittle slides off Tater’s lap and Jack tries his damnedest not to notice the bulge in Mashkov’s slacks. 

“Zimmboni! You find a girl yet?” 

He looks over Bitty’s shoulder at Mashkov, who waves lazily, unaware of the turmoil brewing.

“You okay?” Bitty questions, barely audible over the music. “I feel like you just got here,” he reaches for Jack’s arm and it just _happens —_ the way most involuntary things tend to — Jack flinches away from the touch.

“I’m fine, just tired,” Jack motions to the beer on the table, a paltry offering next to Tater’s bottle of Hennessy that had arrived with a lit sparkler attached.

“Have fun,” he tells Bittle, though it sounds more judgmental than he’d like.Something dark flickers over Bittle’s face.

“I always do,” Bitty assures, leveling Jack with a challenging stare. “Sleep well, Jack.”

Jack doesn’t sleep, instead, he thinks about every time he’s seen Mashkov’s dick in the showers, wonders how big he is erect, and then imagines Tater fucking Bittle in a million different scenarios until Jack feels like he’s ready to tear his eyes out of his own skull.  He turns on his tv and tries to distract himself from the fact that the man he might be in love with is fucking someone who isn’t him. As ‘Drunk History’ slides into ‘Documentary Now,’ Jack ignores Fred Armisen to rewatch Bitty’s video from senior year. 

Jack lies there, face half buried in a pillow, one eye trained on a miserable Eric Bittle saying, _'Never fall for a straight boy.'_

Jack slides back the video and replays it again. Then again. 

_“Never fall for a straight boy,”_  Bitty bemoans.

He reaches out and touches the screen over Bitty's cheek, hard enough the pixels distort and shift, discoloring the image for a few seconds.

" _Never fall for a hockey player,_ " Jack amends softly, staring at the image until he can still see the shadow of Eric Bittle when he closes his eyes.

 

* * *

“You have a problem with me?" Tater confronts him in the locker room after practice the next day and Jack doesn't know what to do with the fuming Russian staring him down. " You tell me to my face.”

“I don’t have a problem with you, Tater,” Jack scrambles, hands lifted in supplication.

“Not what I see last night. I’m not taking you for bigot but now I am not so sure,” Tater scowls. "Very rude to B. Rude to me."

“ _Crisse_ , Tater, no, I just didn’t know you were…that way.”

Mashkov goes pink again and Jack balks.

“No! No, it’s that and…Bittle’s, like, euh, he's my, he's --” Jack struggles with something that will pass as an acceptable excuse but Tater is already nodding like he understands, but he can’t _possibly_  because Jack barely understands it himself. 

“Okay. I get it. He is your friend. You are protective of old teammate, I should have asked for your blessing,” Tater slaps a hand on Jack’s shoulder and Jack grimaces for more than one reason.

“Yeah. Blessing."

“Next time, I ask you first, okay? Okay.”

_ Next time? There's going to be a next time?  _

When Tater lets Jack go, clearly satisfied with what he got out of the conversation, Jack finds he's content to hide in the showers until everyone else has left for the night. Fighting nausea and a possible panic attack, Jack's fingers itch with urge to call someone, anyone, and he hovers over his mother's contact for so long the screen eventually goes to black. 

Instead, something else happens. A text pops in from Bitty.

_ 'Sorry if I caught you off guard. It won't happen again.' _

Jack doesn't know how to respond, so he doesn't.

 

* * *

 

 

It does happen again.

Jack catches Bitty at the All-Star game groping a Canuck in the hotel sauna and nearly has a fit trying to figure out if Bittle is cheating on Tater. In the end, Bitty just blushes a deep scarlet before describing some kind of arrangement that has Jack’s mind going in circles. 

“Wait, wait, so you’re _not_ dating?” Jack questions, keeping his voice low to avoid attracting attention in the packed hotel bar.

Bitty shakes his head. “Lord, no, Tater’s just my Providence hook-up.”

“Providence hook-up?”  Jack doesn’t understand. Or, maybe he does and he just doesn’t want to.

“There are a lot of closeted guys. Like, more than you’d ever think and I just kinda, you know, hook up with them when we travel,” Bittle takes a long drag from his beer and tries to hide his blush. “Lardo calls them my ‘ _harem_ ’ but it’s not that salacious.”

“How do you…how many…" the information is far too much for him to handle and Jack feels like a child unable to verbalize his thoughts. "H ow many do you know…like _that_?”

“…Two or three?” Bittle’s expression shutters like he’s realized he’s already shared too much. “And a handful of other guys that got shipped down but they’re just friends, really.”

“So…Tater is just, what, a regular?”

“I mean, I’m not dating any of them, so it stays pretty clean? Since I’m out they find me and we go from there.”

“So who all have you . . .?”

“You won’t catch me telling tales out of school, Mister Zimmermann,” Bitty winks, and Jack feels ill. “Nice try, though.”

“How do they find you?”

“Add me on FB or follow me on Twitter, day or so before a game they’ll DM something awkward about a post-game drink.”

Jack has a terrible thought and the words come before he can stop them. 

“You haven’t slept with an Ace, have you?”

Bittle whips his head up from his phone and Jack’s stomach drops at the same time his heart leaps into his throat; there's only one member of the Las Vegas Aces Jack knows well enough to speculate on. Jack probably could have just said Parson's name, it would have had the same effect.

“He’s  _gay_?  Wow. Okay,” Bittle frowns and picks at the label on his bottle. “We haven’t crossed paths much, so I didn’t know, um, _that_.”

“ _Crisse_ , don’t say anything --”

“Hey —” Bitty shushes him quickly. “I get it. It’s all good. I didn’t hear a thing.”

They sit in silence for a few moments, poking at cold bar food and not making eye contact until Bitty pipes up, “Okay, I know we're not supposed to talk about it but I don’t think I could be more surprised if you told me _you_ liked men.”

Jack hums into his gin and tonic, aware he’s letting another perfect moment pass. He could just say it, look Bittle dead in the eye and whisper, _‘I do like men. Can't you tell?’,_ but the words don’t come and while Jack is berating himself Bittle sees another of his conquests making eyes from across the bar. For the briefest of seconds, Jack is lost trying to remember when he and Kenny had finally crossed the line from friendship to something more. He can’t because it wasn’t a singular moment. Not like what he’s imagining now. Not like what Bittle is describing.

“Is it that easy?” Jack wonders aloud. “They just look at you and you know?”

“You grow up hiding and you find different ways to communicate. Five bucks says I end up topping tonight,” Bitty grins, catching Jack staring at the man. Jack must make an odd face because he backtracks quickly, “Sorry, TMI. I know you don’t like hearing about — ”  

Jack shakes his head quickly, willing away the heat pooling in his stomach at the thought of Bittle topping someone. Topping _Jack_. 

“No, I’m thinking about how Fitzgerald is twice your size, he’d crush you.” 

It’s possibly the first time Jack has discussed anything close to deets with Bitty, a fact that isn’t lost on either of them if Bittle’s surprise is anything to go by. 

“What?” Bitty blinks at him, pleasantly surprised. “Are you chirping me?” He slaps his palms together horizontally and wiggles his thumbs in what must be a parody of sex. “That's why I top. It’s always the big guys who are secret bottoms and I am but a tiny sprite who could not possibly handle anything more than --”

A cheer goes up from a nearby table as someone from the Stars organization orders a round and the moment is lost, Bitty slapping a hand on the counter to excuse himself and chase after Fitzgerald before he, quote, _‘Gets cold feet.’_

“I’m really glad we had this talk, I was worried about you,” Bitty assures with a one-armed hug. “And I promise I won’t be chasing after the Zimmer-booty anytime soon, nice as it is.”

Jack forces a laugh and thinks about Bittle near tears saying ‘ _never fall for a straight boy’,_ trying to compare that Bitty to the cocksure man he sees now. He thinks about Kent and lonely whales. 

Correction. Whale. Singular.

Jack finishes his drink and sidesteps the leggy blonde that's been trailing him all night. He’s not in the mood for sex. He’s not in the mood for much of anything, anymore.

* * *

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may be a little rough but I wanted to get it up for you all before I get bogged down with work over the next few days. The good stuff is coming soon, I promise!

** VI. **

 

"Is it just us?" Bob asks when they pull up to the pier. “Thought you might bring some of the boys.”

Jack’s father is due for a visit and proposes a weekend fishing trip. For a hot second, Jack pictures their  _'fishing trips'_  from when he was a kid, a little boat on the stocked lake behind the summer home on Prince Edward Island. Then he remembers he's a professional athlete and just charters a small yacht for deep-sea fishing.  There's no real desire to fish, though; more of a blanket excuse to be far away from anywhere and drink with someone he can be honest with. 

"Thought it might be nice to spend some time together," Jack unloads his truck and tries not to show how stressed he is. He'd completely spaced mentioning to his father it would be a solo trip.

"We're going to be on a boat, miles from shore, and you didn't invite any of your teammates, which means this is an off-the-books kinda trip. Did you kill someone? Are we disposing of a body?” Bob ribs, shaking Jack bodily with a one-armed hug, “or, are you just looking to get some things off your chest while we pretend to be great at fishing?”

"The latter? I want to talk about...me."

"Ah, ha," Bob gives Jack a once-over before handing him a life-vest he won't use. "Which version of you? The rookie dynamo? The college graduate? The tortured artist?"

"How about the version of Jack that wants to fuck his teammates? That one seems to be pretty present these days," Jack switches to French climbing onto the small yacht and trying not to tip over a cooler in the process. He looks back and finds his father watching him. "What?"

"Nothing. Just haven't talked to that Jack in a while," Bob shrugs, a step behind. "Not since you had that crush on Shitty."

"It was not a crush," Jack hasn't quite forgotten that period of indecision his sophomore year but it's not something he'd like to keep present, either. He wonders what else he's forgotten.

Bob unties the rope mooring them to the dock and laughs, "Sorry, no, it wasn't a crush. It was just interesting to watch you figure out the line between friendship and physical attraction in real time. What was it you said? _'I don't know if I want to fuck him or be friends with him'?_ Shame he's straight we could always use a lawyer in the family."

"I think Shits would have a stroke if you told him that."

"Yeah? Should I call him and ask if he'd like to be adopted?" Bob laughs and signals the captain they're ready to depart. "If there was a reality where I needed more than one son to be proud of, maybe."

Something twists in Jack's chest the same way it does any time Bob compliments him. It's taken time to get to a point where his father's affection made him feel anything other than sick with guilt; in those careful years after Jack's overdose, any shred of praise felt like a veiled mockery.

How could anyone think highly of Jack when he wasn't proud of what he'd become?

He's learned to go easy on himself since but he doesn't think it'll ever be easy.

They find a place to drop anchor and proceed to do anything and everything besides fish. They play cards, betting real money because Jack's a professional now, and talk about the season, the struggles, skirting the larger issue at play: Jack's sexuality. Maybe it's because they're out on open water, or maybe it's because Jack's been backsliding so badly he can't find a way to broach the subject without mentioning miscommunication and --

"Wait, this again?" Bob slaps down another losing hand and fishes out his money clip.  "The whale thing? You're not a whale, Jack. You're not the last of your kind, destined to suffer because you’re different.” 

Bob pauses to grab another beer but Jack can tell he’s using the moment to try and find the right words to express himself. "You just got _lost._  Okay? Right now, yes, you are alone but you -” Bob stops again, gesturing to the water emphatically, “- your _pod_ is still out there. Bittle is proof of that. He can be your little minesweeper.”

“ _‘Minesweeper_ ’ implies he might get blown up,” Jack mutters around the rim of his bottle, biting absently at the glass as he stares out over the water. If he focuses hard enough he can make out the coastline. The real world. He leaves the small pile of brightly colored Canadian bills on the table and deals another hand.

“Better him than you,” Bob says with an unexpected seriousness, snatching his cards. 

“I don’t want him to get hurt at all,” Jack admits.

“Get ready for me to mix metaphors — are we out in the middle of the ocean because you’re interested in another whale?”

Though Jack is incredibly embarrassed, he can’t help but laugh.

"I think I'm into Bittle,” Jack admits, enjoying the boat’s gentle rocking, “and it’s terrible.”

“Well, that happens sometimes,” Bob whistles sympathetically. “What are you going to do about it? He’s gay, you’re…something. Bisexual?”

Jack shrugs and Bob gestures emphatically at him. “See? So, why can’t you just fuck him and be done with it? Get it out of your system.”

“I...it's more than that. I think I'm in love with him."

“So, we're not talking _'post-game hookup'_ love, we're talking  _'get married have babies'_  love.”

“Not exactly," Jack winces, "not anywhere near ready for children."

“Son, this isn’t the beer talking when I tell say you're a handsome, wealthy whale and we just have to get you back in the water so you can have a whole pod of adorable gay whale babies," Bob takes a swig of his beer and flips his sunglasses down to cover his eyes. “You talk a big game with the ladies but we all know what you're after. Cute, blonde wingers you can -- what's a good whaling metaphor for 'fuck'? Harpoon? You need to 'harpoon' a boyfriend. Shouldn't be too hard, Bittle's shared a locker room with you, he knows what you're working with. Show him the old _'Zimmermann Charm'_."

It's a testament to how drunk Jack is that he doesn't immediately recoil from the conversation topic.

"When have I ever 'talked a big game'? I have zero game, that's the problem." Jack looks at his cards and sees a pair of fours. "Also, Maman finally told me what _'Zimmermann Charm'_ really is."

"The hockey gods blessed you with your father's ass, Jack. Embrace it. Look, you have to work out your situation somehow and as long as Bittle isn't on your team, you're in the clear. Make a move. If things go south, you don't have to see him every day and you can move onto the next best thing." 

"Which is?"

Bob makes a quick jerking motion with his hand and Jack snorts beer up his nose.

"Can I make one terrible joke?" Bob asks, face unexpectedly serious. "Just because it's us and I need to live up to my moniker?"

"Just one?" Jack coughs. "How bad is it?"

"Mildly homophobic, maybe." Bob answers. "But, to be fair, I will openly admit that while I have not acted on it, I have admired another man's physique for longer than would be considered acceptable in the locker room." 

Jack laughs wetly and lifts his free hand to wave a mock benediction. In response, Bob flips two of his cards to show an Ace of Hearts and Queen of Spades. 

Jack doesn't get it. Not at first.

"You don't see it? Who do we know that's an Ace _and_ a Queen?"

" _Tabarnak_. That's terrible," Jack groans, kicking at his father's chair. " _You're_ terrible. Gay blessing retracted."

"Before you go judging me, Kent is the one who showed me that," Bob defends, tucking the cards back into his hand and throwing a fifty onto the table top. "Laughed himself hoarse, he thought it was so funny."

"When did you talk to Kenny?"

"Playoffs, remember I guest commentated those games in Los Angeles while your mother had that fundraiser thing. We grabbed a drink after the Aces wiped the floor with the Kings. You know, he's doing pretty well? I think he's got a boyfriend, now. God knows he needs a man to distract him from breaking all of my fucking records."

"He'll never beat your penalty minutes," Jack turns the information over in his mind, thankful again for his slight inebriation heading off less than desirable emotional reactions. "But that's good. He deserves someone."

"Yes, he does, and so do you," Bob adds. "You're not alone, even if it feels like it. "

Jack nods against the lump in his throat and derails the conversation on purpose by adding five hundred dollars to the pot; his father graciously ignores the obvious change of conversation and they spend the rest of the day discussing 'work'. It's possibly the most relaxed Jack has been in nearly a year. 

It's a shame he can't keep that feeling in a bottle for when he needs it most.

 

  **V.**

 

Bittle is doing well in Seattle but George has been gunning for him since the Frozen Four. When she finally clears the cap space to secure a trade to the Falconers early in his second year, Jack doesn’t have words to describe how he feels. 

Like most everything else in Jack's life, anxiety colors excitement and fear with the same brush, but still, he tells his father about Bittle. About how he hopes maybe he can come out and it’ll be alright. People won’t hate him for it, because he won’t be first.  Papa tells him it’ll be hard but if he has someone like Eric beside him, it can’t be too bad.

The trade goes through and Providence is going to boast two Samwell alumni — a tandem-duo almost as hyped as Jack and Kent once were — and Jack offers his second bedroom until Bitty can find a place of his own.  This is a mistake for many reasons; the most terrible of which being that Jack's hamfisted plan of seducing Bittle is no longer an option because they're _playing for the same team_.

On top of that, after Bitty becomes a Falconer, Jack begins to understand exactly what Bitty had meant when he’d said guys ‘found him’.

It’s winks and nods and smiles and frowns and a whole dimension of human interaction Jack’s tried to ignore for years. It’s D-men who turn body checks into bear hugs and forwards that say ‘fuck you’ when they really mean ‘ _fuck me_.’ It’s people trusting blindly that Eric is safe because he’s the face of something bigger than himself and an entire _language_ Jack doesn’t know how to speak because he's spent a majority of his adult life trying to hide the part of himself Bittle so easily shares.

Bitty calls it off with Tater because he doesn’t want the stress of sleeping with a guy on his own team, but not long after Jack’s apartment suddenly becomes a hotspot for closeted NHLers playing in Providence: a  Hurricane eating breakfast in the kitchen. A Senator showering in the guest bath. A King vaping on the balcony.

It isn’t a den of sin by any means. The hookups taper off after a while and suddenly there are movie nights. Board games. Bittle cooks a lot. The guys really are _friends_ with benefits, and they’re _great_ guys. In another life, these are men he'd be bonding with, commiserating over shared experiences and supporting one another. Instead, here, they're great guys that all panic when they realize they’re in ‘ _Jack Zimmermann’s apartment_ ’ like _he’s_ the threat. 

Jack had been hopeful at first but now he hates it.  It’s worse than when he was living alone; being so terribly close to exactly what he wants and can’t let himself have.

It's only natural that the tension would spill over into Jack's work.

One morning before practice, in the locker room, Bittle is laughing at something with Tater, something gossipy, and Jack can’t squash the green monster writhing in his gut.

_“Not some big, gay boogeyman,”_ Jack mumbles to himself while he tapes his stick. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Bitty is already laced up and starting to sway to his pregame mix. He's distractingly beautiful.

_“What was that, kid?”_ Marty asks, motioning for Jack to toss him a roll. 

Marty sees Jack's gaze dart to Bittle and Jack catches himself a hair too late.

_“Nothing, just, stuck in my own head, you know?”_

It comes to a head when  Marty stops him in the tunnel, his hand a heavy weight over Jack’s breastbone. _“I don’t want to go making assumptions but you’ve been tense around Bittle. I don't get it, you played in college, I know you lived together then, too.”_

He can’t verbalize this…thing inside him. This shame. The jealousy. Not to Marty. Not to anyone. There’s a damning tightness in his throat and a burning behind his eyes. 

“He’s fine,” Jack tries, “ _I’m_ fine. I just—”

A loud _‘whoop’_ distracts Marty as Tater goes flying across the ice with Bittle in his arms. Jack’s eyes catch on the fresh ‘C’ on Marty’s sweater, and he finds it all too easy to hold his tongue.

“ _What the fuck is_ — Jack, we’ll talk later.”

They won’t talk again, not about this. Jack’s already gotten the message. Shape up. Be Better. Or else.

 

 

 **VI.**  

 

That night, Jack stands in his kitchen waiting for a piece of vegetable quiche to reheat when Bitty slides out of his room with an exaggerated yawn. Jack can’t help but focus on the shorts his roommate is wearing, leftover from college, riding up just slightly because they were not designed to accommodate NHL levels of thigh definition. Bittle's filled out. Toned.  It’s problematic for a number of reasons, notably the tightening of Jack’s own briefs, but that particular issue has nothing to do with Bittle. It's all Jack. 

Jack should apologize for being distant. For being critical at practice. 

Instead, he says,  “How’s your circulation there, Bits?”

Bitty's mid-stretch when he pauses, an arm still above his head and asks, “Pardon?”

“You know, we play for this team called the Falconers? If you ask nicely they might give you some money, let you buy some clothes that fit," Jack motions to the tight shorts with his fork and Bitty flushes.

He means it as a joke but Bitty doesn’t chirp him back, just laughs it off, not the way Jack is used to, and disappears into the bathroom. When it becomes clear Bittle isn’t coming back out anytime soon, Jack scrubs a hand over his face and groans, _“What the fuck, Zimmermann.”_

He finishes his quiche standing above the sink and retreats to his own room.

The next time Jack sees his roommate, Bittle's wearing sweats.

 

** VII. **

 

"We need to talk."

_"Tabarnak,_ " Jack startles badly enough at Bitty's introduction he drops his book outright. 

"You've been a complete dick for months," Bittle is stone-faced, standing next to the couch, bundled into his green Schooners hoodie, hair damp and eyes suspiciously red. "Which for the life of me, I do not understand. You asked me to move in with you. You told me I should sign with Providence. I came back to play with _you._ My _friend_. So, what gives? What happened between then and now that turned you back into my asshole captain from freshman year?"

Jack might as well be a deer in the headlights of an oncoming truck because he can't even open his mouth to make up an excuse.

"Well? What do you have to say?" Bittle crosses his arms and looks like he's on the verge of tears again, face screwed up and chin wobbling. "Is Marty right? Are you having trouble with guys I bring home? Fuck, we talked about this when I moved in, you were okay with it!"

"It's not the guys," Jack finds his voice but not his courage. "It's just hard watching you with them. Sometimes."

"What the hell does that even mean? So it is the gay thing?" Bittle sniffs. "Great. Wonderful. Now I need to move out because you're secretly a homophobe."

"No, fuck, that's not what I meant," Jack scrambles up off the couch and Bitty backs up reflexively, clearly unsure of what Jack is trying to accomplish.

"You just said —"

"— I know what I said. It's hard seeing you with guys because I'm _lonely_ , okay?" Jack rushes, scrambling for anything that will undo this nightmare of a conversation. "I'm lonely," he repeats, watching the anger drain from Bitty's pink face. 

"Oh."

"I'm sorry I've been taking it out on you," Jack apologizes, rolling his ankle to try and ground himself. "I've been an asshole."

"You have," Bitty agrees, scrubbing at his face before dropping onto the other end of the couch. "You really have."

Jack drops down beside him and tries to save face, picking up his book from the floor and straightening the few bent pages while he figures out what to do next. Before he gets that far, a pair of arms wraps around his chest as Bitty pulls him into a tight hug.

"I'm sorry I thought you were a homophobe," Bitty whispers wetly. "And I'm sorry you feel lonely, I know I've been distant I just should have talked to you. Lord, I know this probably isn’t any of my business but I have noticed you don’t seem to date much. Or, um, at all. The guys say you never really go out or go home with anyone and, well, you're making me feel a bit stereotypical here.”

"I dated Camilla," Jack defends, fighting the heat behind his eyes as he leans into the embrace, savoring a taste of what he can't allow himself to have. 

“ _Junior year_ ,” Bitty laughs lamely, pulling back slightly to look Jack in the eye. “Like four years ago. Jesus, was that your last relationship?”

Jack thinks about the question for far too long, feeling like he’s wearing armor made of tissue paper. “I’m not really interested in casual relationships,” he settles, wondering if this is the moment he’ll open his mouth and finally say, _I like men. I like you._ But he doesn't. Because he's a coward and a liar, and he knows somewhere in a file cabinet across town, Bittle's contract has morality stipulations Jack's doesn't.

“So you’re, what, Demi?”

“What?”

“Demisexual. It’s when you feel sexual attraction after you’ve made a personal connection or know someone really well. Makes it hard to just pick up a person in a bar,” Bitty explains quickly, and Jack realizes Bittle said ‘person’. He didn’t specify a gender.

“I guess that makes sense,” Jack says. “I’m not the best with social cues so nine times out of ten someone flirting goes right over my head, anyway.”

Bitty is staring at Jack like he’s never seen him before when Jack blinks down at his hands and tries to regulate his breathing. Did Bitty just figure it out on his own?

“Someone?” Bitty leans in just a smidge. “Any kind of someone? A ‘Lady’ someone?”  Bittle’s intense posture means he’s about to fall off the cushion and Jack snorts when he scrambles to regain his balance. 

Jack swallows and says, “Well, sometimes a ‘Mister’ someone, too.”

Bitty’s laughing so hard from his near spill that he almost misses Jack’s confession. 

“You said ‘ _Mister_ ’,” he echoes, grin dropping into something closer to shock.

“Maybe,” Jack’s heart is in his throat, blood rushing in his ears. “Maybe, you heard right.”

When Jack came out to his parents, it was a somber admission; something that, at the time, could have defined him as _‘less than’_ for his entire life. In some ways, nothing has changed, except, something did. That something is sitting in front of him, practically vibrating with excitement. Bittle is now one of four people in the world that know, for a fact, that Jack Zimmermann likes men.

“You’re bi,” Bitty looks ecstatic in a way that tells Jack he hasn’t processed the finer details of Jack’s non-confession. “You didn’t say anything — ” then Bitty’s enthusiasm tapers just a little as reality catches up with him. “You’ve _never_ said anything.” 

Jack watches the realization settle in, how the shadows over Bitty’s face change minutely to match whatever tiny expressions accompany the wheels turning in his brain.

“You’re closeted,” Bitty says.

“Yeah.”

“No, like, _closeted_ -closeted,” Bitty stresses, readjusting like he can't decide if he wants to hug Jack or hit him. “Does anyone know? Besides me?”

“My parents,” Jack presses a fist up under his chin to pop his neck. “My, _euh_ , ex. You. That’s it. Well, that and a fuck-load of people speculating on the internet.”

“Holy shit,” Bitty mumble to himself, nudging up the sleeve of his sweatshirt to scratch at his arm. “I mean, I just thought you were getting riled up because I was being —”

“You thought I was being homophobic,” Jack finishes, resisting the urge to run and hide in his room. “Marty already gave me hell about it.” 

"Oh, lord, this whole time I've been bringing guys back here and you've been — Jack, I am _so sorry_."

“ _Crisse._ You shouldn’t apologize, I was being an ass about it,” Jack interrupts. “It’s been....surreal watching you navigate being out with playing professionally.”

“Given the circumstances, can I ask you about, um,” Bitty hesitates and Jack knows exactly where this conversation is going. "Well..."

“The overdose?”

“Yeah.” Bitty’s suddenly somber. “Was your sexuality a catalyst?”

Since 2009, Jack has done a lot of thinking about his past and the events that led to the substance abuse problem that nearly cost him his life. ‘Accidental’ or no. There are a million and one things he could blame, _has_ blamed, not the least of which is the legitimate chemical imbalance in his brain, but the fact he likes dick? 

“First off, I didn’t try to kill myself but I’d be lying if I said my...sexuality wasn’t a part of the equation,” Jack uncrosses his legs and plants his feet firmly on the floor and leans forward, unclenching his fists while Bitty quickly says, _“I know you didn’t —”_

“I need order. Structure,” Jack stresses, waving off Bitty's concern. “When I was in high school, I’d created a tiny world that I thought I had full control over, that I could trust. I had my friends, my hockey, my… well, I didn’t consciously realize any of this at the time, this is years of therapy talking. The draft was an end date on everything I’d built. Sure, it was the goal — all of my hard work building to something huge — but it was going to be precipitated by the complete destruction of everything else in my life. I’d be alone, starting from scratch, hiding. Stress increased, medication increased, I drank too much, then I hit a very hard wall and lost everything in a different way.”

A foreign urge hits himself suddenly; Jack grabs the remote from the table and turns on the smart TV, switching to YouTube to pull up a video of the 2009 NHL Draft.

“Jack, we don’t need to —” 

“No, no, it’s okay I want you to see something,” Jack waves down Bitty’s concern, riding the wave of slight mania that’s creeping at the edge of his consciousness. He mutes the tv before the video starts and together they watch the first pick of the draft, Kent Parson to the Las Vegas Aces.

“Look at his face,” Jack encourages, keeping his gaze trained on Kenny’s near-smirk. “Three days earlier he found me half dead in a hotel bathroom.”

“He looks pretty fucking happy to me,” Bitty snarks.

“He wanted to drop out, too,” Jack counters. “He didn’t want to leave me alone. Papa made him go through with it, didn’t want me to bring down two careers.”

“Bob did not say that to you.”

“Nope, he didn’t. But that’s how I felt. That's Kenny’s poker face. Smarmy.”

"You told me about an Ace.” Jack looks at Bitty and finds his gaze trained firmly on the screen. "Is Parson your ex?"

“He was my best friend,” Jack answers, refusing to dig his grave any deeper.

“That’s not a no.”

“That it isn’t,” Jack turns off the power before Kenny raises the Aces jersey for photographs and  Bitty sits quietly, clearly taking a moment to process everything he's just learned.

"I'm sorry," Bitty says finally, looking at Jack with no small measure of empathy. "I'm sorry you still have to hide. I'm sorry this was something you didn't feel like you could share with me. With anyone."

There's nothing new or particularly profound about Bittle's words but something in his tone makes Jack want to cry. 

"Me too, Bits," Jack exhales roughly. "Me too."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confession time! Also, warning for Jack getting injured on-ice (it's not overly described).

**VIII.**

 

Something shifts after Jack comes out.

While Bittle's escapades had already tapered off substantially from what Jack had seen during the preseason, it seems like the hook-ups have stopped almost completely. Bittle stops bringing guys home and starts spending more time in the common area with Jack. While he isn’t quite ‘handsy’ he’s certainly a lot more tactile than he was before.  More hugs. Closer contact. Like he’s trying to relieve how touch starved he thinks Jack must be through tiny comforts. 

It’s maddening to think this is all Jack can allow but damn if it does help alleviate some of the heaviness in his life.

“I just…it’s so frustrating! I mean, obviously, I can’t make it down for Christmas if I’m _here_!”

Bittle’s pacing is making Jack dizzy so he shifts on the couch, opens his arms, and waits for Bitty to notice.

“What are you doing?”

“C’mere,” Jack motions for Bittle to join him and wraps the smaller man up in a tight hug. Bitty immediately shifts to smash his face into Jack’s chest and sigh loudly.

“She knows I can’t make it,” Bitty repeats, holding onto Jack tightly. “How many times do I have to say it?”

“Once was enough," Jack drops a cheek to the top of Bitty’s head and runs a comforting hand over his back. "If it’s that big a deal, fly them up here yourself.”

He’s being comforting. This is what friends do. Jack is perfectly within the realm of acceptable roommate behavior. Except 'Straight Jack' never did this at the Haus. Never snuggled up to his gay teammate on the living room couch. This is 'Gay Jack' territory. If that's a thing that exists.

"Thank you for being nice to me," Bitty says tiredly, tucked safely in Jack's arms. "Don't know how I'd have gotten here without you."

"Credit where credit is due, Bits," Jack counters, fighting the butterflies in his chest. 

"Thank you," Bitty whispers, a hand pressed to the center of Jack's chest. 

Jack doesn't know what Bittle is thanking him for, his head is so full of static, but the moment doesn't end like it should.  They stay pressed together, touching, longer than strictly necessary, and it's when they need to separate so Bitty can take a call from his mother that there's a moment of hesitation. Impossible for Jack to miss. 

" _I'm sorry,_ " Bitty mouths, rolling off the couch, careful not to touch Jack below the waist.

It isn't wishful thinking and Jack's hindbrain kicks into high gear when he reaches out and snags Bitty's free wrist, just to see what will happen. As expected, Bitty slows, still listening to his mother, though he looks down at Jack with a pained expression before shaking loose Jack's grip to instead lace their fingers, holding Jack hostage between his knuckles as he argues about holiday travel. 

To Jack, it feels like more than friendship. It's domesticity. Affection. Jack tugs Bitty's hand forward, for a half-second intent on kissing the back of Bitty's hand, before realizing their relationship isn't quite there yet; he recovers quickly, ducking to press his forehead against Bittle's hand.

Instead of looking romantic he must look like a fool with a fever.

" _You okay?_ " Bitty mouths when Jack finally looks up. 

Jack's man enough to admit to himself he isn't okay, but he will be very soon.

"Peachy," Jack chirps.

Bitty just smiles.

 

* * *

 

They play the Aces and Jack drags Kenny aside before puck drop to ask, "When we played together, was I ' _nice_ ' to you?" 

"You're still just as clueless as ever, aren't you?" Parse glares at him. "What the fuck kind of question is that to ask _now_?"

"A real one?"

Parse ignores him and ends up getting the Aces first possession.

Jack realizes during the second intermission that it probably wasn't the best time to bring up their relationship but he's apparently not emotionally mature enough to instigate a proper conversation; not that his awareness of that fact is winning him any points.

In the end, the Falconers can't quite pull it out and Jack leaves the locker room declining an invitation to get wasted with Bitty and Tater only to find Kenny waiting for him near the player exit.

"Come to my place," Parse says, like he's already expecting Jack to decline, but Jack hoists his bag up and nods, following his ex to the underground player lot.

"You know, I thought you were trying to get in my head," Parse explains, popping the trunk of his Audi so Jack can drop his duffel. "Then I remembered you're just a lovesick dumbass."

"That seems to be a theme with me lately," Jack sighs, sliding into the passenger seat. "I like your car."

"Everyone does," Parse chirps when the engine roars to life. Before Jack can blink they're flying down the strip.  "So, spill, Bittle got you contemplating career suicide?"

A text makes Jack's phone vibrate in his pocket. When he checks it, he sees it's Bittle.

_Hey, saw you leave with Parson._

"It's not...suicide," Jack mutters, tapping out a quick reply telling Bitty not to worry.   

"Says you. To answer your question from before," Parse says, merging onto the highway, "you were very nice to me. Part of the reason I fell in love with your sorry Canadian ass. Now, be honest. You have Bittle living with you and you're not fucking, so how's that working for you, Zimms? I'd be losing my mind if I had to watch my crush fuck his way through the league."

"I have been in your car for four minutes and you're already shoving my face in it," Jack groans, rolling his head to look out the window at the passing city lights. "And he's not doing that anymore."

"You aren't here to compare stats," Parse argues. "You're here because Bob told you I'm seeing someone and you have the only out player in the league, who is exactly your type, on your line."

"Crisse, did he tell you that?" Jack turns back, irritated, realizing they aren't in the city. "Wait, don't you live on the Strip?"

"I do but Ian lives out here," Parse answers, turning into a gated subdivision and pulling up to a large house with a number of exotic cars parked on the curved driveway, though Kent doesn't part up front, instead he circles to the garage around back.

"You sure you want to introduce your current boyfriend to your ex?" Jack asks, trying to anticipate the coming interaction based on his limited context clues.

"Not really  _ _—__ it feels like something that needs to happen," Parse gets out of the car while Jack follows close after. "I have this need to show you I'm doing alright, you know? Hey, shoes."

"Oh," Jack slides off his loafers and his eyes immediately catch on a framed college football jersey in the entryway. He doesn't recognize the name off-hand but he does recognize the colors of the NFL jersey beside it; and the number, which stops Jack cold.

"Your boyfriend plays for the Raiders?"

"You thought I was fucking another hockey player, didn't you? I have layers, Zimms," Kent tosses a grin over his shoulder before yelling. "Ian! Jack's here! Put on some pants!"

There's a second where Jack has time to tuck his loafers under a decorative bench before a broad man in sweats and an Ohio State shirt comes around the corner flashing a tired smile

"Why do you have to call me out like that," Ian chides, dropping a kiss to Parse's cheek before turning to Jack. "Hey, man, nice to finally meet you. I'm Ian."

"Hey, Jack," Jack reaches out for a handshake and ends up in a bear hug with Ian's dreads tickling his cheek. "Oh, um, hello."

"Ha, you were right, Kent, the boy's Canadian as hell."

"Yeah, he is," Parse laughs, slapping Jack's free shoulder. "He's a hugger, Zimms. C'mon, let's get something to eat. Ian, stop intimidating him. He's in mourning."

Jack is released and needs to pop his neck to restore some sense of normalcy. "Defense?" Jack asks, jerking a thumb to the jersey. "52?"

"Center," Ian shrugs apologetically, gesturing for Jack to follow him.

"So, _euh_ , how long have you known Kent?"

"We met at the ESPN Awards last year and just clicked, you know?"

Jack _doesn't_ know. That's kind of the problem.

"You on anything? Can you have a drink?" Kenny holds up a bottle of wine when they round the corner into a large, bright kitchen. "I think we have non-alcoholic stuff, too."

"In the wine cellar," Ian prompts. "If you need it."

"Nah, I'm alright with wine," Jack placates, shuddering slightly when Ian drops an arm across Jack's shoulders.

"You need anything, you just say so," Ian says, not unkindly. "I know what it's like to be unsettled, feel me?"

"Whoa. You realize you look exactly like that meme of the miserable cheetah being petted, hold on I'll find it," Kenny grabs a tablet from the counter. Jack doesn't need to see the screen to know what Kenny's talking about. 

They end up in Ian's enormous sunken living room watching SportsCenter on mute while tearing apart a lazily thrown-together charcuterie platter when ESPN finally gets to the recap of the Aces/Falconers game and Kenny, three glasses in, pauses the screen on an unflattering shot of Bittle to go, "Ian, that's Jack's twink!"

"Hey, he's cute, even all red-faced and sweaty like that. So, what," Ian looks at Jack, who is propped up against the couch cushions feeling buzzed and only a little miserable, "you two can't work it out or something? What's the deal?"

 _"They play on the same team,"_ Kenny explains through a mouthful of brie. "Also, Zimms is so far in the closet he's basically in Narnia."

"Says _Aslan_ ," Jack chides when Ian makes a low noise and lifts his glass to Jack in sympathy. "Partly because I'm terrified of intimacy, partly because I can't imagine the kind of shitshow that would come from coming out while sleeping with a teammate."

"Whoa there," Kenny counters. "One thing at a time, you need to walk before you can run. Who said anything about coming out?"

Jack's drunk brain refuses to process the question in real time and instead, he answers, "It's not fair to Bittle if I don't come out."

"Jack, you aren't him," Kenny points out. "You don't have to do anything. Not yet."

"I don't just want to fuck him," Jack explains like it's relevant to the conversation. "I think I love him."

"Fuck," Kenny polishes off his glass. "Bob didn't say it was that bad."

" _Tabarnak_. Stop talking to my father about me," Jack rolls onto his side and points a finger at Kent's face. "Stop. Gossiping."

Kenny mimics the motion and says, with equal seriousness, "No."

Jack's phone buzzes again. Bittle.

"Are you being summoned?"

"We have a flight in the morning," Jack bemoans. "I need to get back. Can I get an Uber out here?"

"No, it's only  _ _—__ " Kenny grabs Ian's arm to look at his watch, " _ _—__ _fuck,_  2:30? When did that happen?"

"I have a driver," Ian offers, waving Jack down. "Give me twenty to get him here, alright? Drink some water." 

Jack fusses with his phone, drinks whatever Kenny hands him, and it feels like no time at all has passed when Ian taps him on the shoulder and says, "You're up, Romeo. Need a hand?"

He does but finds Kent is the one walking him to the driveway.

"You're gonna figure this out, Zimms," Kenny says, tucking Jack into the cab. "You always seem to."

"You're a good friend," Jack says, only slurring a little bit, and Kent smiles at him with his deceptively perfect teeth.

"You too, bud," Kenny ruffles Jack's hair in the way he hates. "Maybe now we can be good friends to each other at the same time."

The door closes.

Jack waves goodbye.

 

* * *

 

 **IX.**  

 

 

Boomer is grinding up on some girl all too happy to be close to his junk and Bittle’s just swaying his hips, sipping the Ciroc and cranberry Jack poured him after Snowy opted for bottle service, watching the TVs cycle through lewd video clips while everyone else pairs off for the night.

After a few minutes, it becomes clear this custom montage of images is generic to go with the DJ’s set — white Lamborghinis crashing into walls, gold, diamonds, clothed women dancing ballet in reverse, naked women being drenched in white paint. More naked women dancing. Pouty lips. Close-ups of glitter and body-painted breasts. More breasts. More nipples. Oh, wait. Three very attractive half-naked men dressed like sultans. Oh, no, they’re gone again for naked fire-dancing. 

Boomer’s groping at the woman’s backside, now, and what Jack wouldn’t give to have Bitty’s hand squeezing his ass like that, pulling his shirt up in the middle of a packed nightclub and sliding his hand down the front of his --

“Jack! You’re not dancing!”

Jack breaks from his daze and turns to see Bitty beside him, one thumb hooked in the pocket of his jeans, indicating Boomer with his drink hand.

“You watching this, too?”

“The girls?” Jack deflects, trying not to stare at the deep tan ‘v’ of Bitty’s chest under his loose button up. “No, I was watching the TV.”

“Sure. Watching the TV and not noticing Boomer getting a handy on the dance floor. Good eyes, Cap.”

Before he can act, Bitty looks back at Boomer and wolf-whistles but the sound is lost almost as soon as it leaves his mouth. If Jack had a few drinks in him — enough to take the edge off but not enough to incapacitate him — he’d be enjoying this experience immensely. However, tonight Jack is stone cold sober because he has a plan.

A plan that involves the man standing across from him currently playing voyeur.

“Alternate,” Jack reminds, fighting the heat rising in his cheeks.

“You’ll always be ‘Captain’ to me,” Bitty’s smile is so soft and genuine Jack is struck silent.

Jack hasn’t seen that look in a long time — almost since his Senior year at Samwell. It gives him the courage to tap Bittle on the shoulder, getting his attention long enough he can gesture to the VIP area.

“ _Hey_ ,” Jack yells because the lull between songs has ended. “ _Come with me?_ ”

Bitty nods before waving off Snowy’s offer of something flaming and following Jack through the crowd. It takes everything in him not to reach back and take Bittle’s hand.

“What’s going on?”

“I need to talk to you alone and we aren’t leaving.”

“No one else comes in,” Jack directs, slipping by the VIP bouncer and tucking a folded hundred dollar bill into the man’s fist. 

“Alright, Honey,” Bittle falls back onto a blue velvet couch the second they slip behind the curtain, lounging with a confidence Jack never thought he’d live to see. “You’re sweating like a sinner in church. Whose caught your eye?”

“None of your business,” Jack teases, relishing the way Bitty raises one perfectly trimmed eyebrow at him.

“Oh, really?” Bitty pushes himself off the couch and gestures around the small room. “You’re the one that dragged me into a vodka and cum soaked lounge, I think I can ask a few questions.”

“You’re the one that sat down.”

“Hey. Anything is cleaner than the Haus couch,” Bitty points out, inching closer. “But seriously, spill. Did Boomer get you all hot and bothered? I’m feeling a little faint myself —”

“You asked me who had caught my eye,” Jack says carefully reaching out to thumb a loose button on Bittle’s shirt. “What if I said that person was _you_?”

“I’d laugh at you,” Bitty grins, taking note of the button issue and batting Jack’s hand away to fix it himself. “You’re sweet but I’m a mess tonight. Look at me. You can still see the helmet indent on my forehead.”

“You look amazing.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Mister Zimmermann, because you, sir, are drunk,” Bitty protests, snatching the cup from Jack’s hand and sniffing deeply before his brow furrows in confusion. He takes a cautious sip and says, “Is this . . . water?”

“There’s some lime in there, too,” Jack takes the cup back and holds Bitty’s gaze while he finishes the remaining contents, still able to catch club lights shining on his wet lips.

“Lord, you’re _sober_ ,” Bitty says numbly, running a hand through his hair, accidentally dislodging his cowlick. “And the person you’re eyeing is . . . Me?

Jack nods his head but Bitty has already turned away and started rapidly shaking the curtains around.

“Uh.”

“Where’s Tater? Did he put you up to this? I swear to high heaven if this is a _joke_ ; he knows how I feel about — “

“Bits,” Jack grabs Bitty’s arm before he can escape out the front. “ _Please_.”

The noise of the club is muffled but still loud enough Jack can feel the bass of the DJ’s latest mix reverberating in his chest. Maybe it’s his heart. Maybe it’s Brandon Flowers crooning about revenge. Either way, Bitty stills and stares down at where Jack is holding him with a measure of panic. Jack lets go.

“It’s not a joke.”

“Not a joke,” Bitty breathes, gaze flicking up. “Not drunk. So, what is this?”

“You were right — _are_ right — you shouldn’t have to do this alone and it’s cowardly of me to stand by and let you suffer alone. I don’t know when I’ll be ready to come out, but I need you to know I’m trying to be brave.”

Jack swallows past his heart in his throat and leans down.

The first press of lips is soft, questioning because Jack has waited a long time for this and savoring the moment is as important as ensuring it continues. Apparently so has Bittle because Jack has fingers twisting his hair and a tongue tickling his lips before he can find his bearings.  It's only when Jack gets a hand around Bitty’s hip and dips his fingers below the waistband of Bitty's jeans to brush the swell of his ass that  Jack feels a hand on his chest, pushing away.

“We have to stop,” Bitty apologizes, though he lingers in Jack’s arms. “You aren’t just one of the guys, you’re one of my best friends — you _are_ my best friend. I can’t throw that away for a hookup.”

“I’ve been in love with you since college,” Jack interrupts, gently resting his hand on Bitty’s cheek to steady him. “I don’t want a hook-up or a one-night stand, a ‘locker room romance’, I want to fall asleep next to you and wake up the same way.”

Jack’s running out of ideas but it doesn’t matter because Bitty’s eyes are wide and bright and worryingly damp.

“Hon,” Bitty whispers, stricken. “That’s so much _worse_.”

“It’s terrible timing, isn’t it?” Jack reaches up and runs a finger along Bittle’s jaw line, over the barely-there stubble he’s trying to grow out for playoffs, and down over his chin. “You’d think I’d have better sense than this but, _crisse_ , I thought I might lose my mind.”

"We have to go," Bitty reaches up and catches Jack's hand, bringing it down to his side. "We can't talk about this here."

* * *

  

**X.**

 

“How would this even work?” Bitty laments, already digging the flour out of the pantry.

“Are you baking? Now?”

Jack looks at the clock above the fridge, hands tickling three am.

“This is how I process stressful information,” Bitty snaps, tossing a bag of brown sugar onto the counter. “My roommate is in love with me and we play on the same professional hockey team. This is a Lifetime movie premise, Jack. How is that going to look to the layman? It won’t matter we’ve known each other for six years. What will matter is the fact you’re my captain and I’m the NHL’s little gay experiment. You can’t come out _and_ say you’re dating me in the same breath. Please hand me a mixing bowl.”

Jack drops into a crouch to rustle around under the counter for a medium sized bowl because he can recognize the ingredients Bitty’s collected so far.

“So, I won’t. I’ll just come out first.”

“Oh? And then what?”

Jack looks up and sees Bitty staring down with questioning eyes.

“What happens after you come out? Say we tell the team, so there aren’t any liability issues, and as a result, I get traded or bumped down because this is a PR nightmare at least and a contract violation regarding workplace conduct at most. Please tell me we have butter?”

Jack moves to the fridge while Bitty continues measuring.

“Lord, we played together, lived together, and I thought it was too good to be true that I might finally be over you. Everything I’ve worked for — everything _you’ve_ worked for — and you’re willing to toss it away? For me? I know how scared you are, Jack, and I don’t know if I want you to tangle with the special kind of hell that is being out in the NHL. There’s a reason all these guys stay silent.  No one wanted to be first and now no one wants to be second.”

He’s not wrong.

Jack’s seen the way  Bittle hides when the world becomes too much, retreating to his room with a plate of cookies and stacks of fan mail pre-screened by the front office for ‘negative content’. 

“Yes, maybe if there were more of us who came out it would tip the scales a bit. Maybe having a legacy player like you get up on a podium and say ‘I’m gay’ —“

“Bi,” Jack corrects softly, dropping Eric’s cracked eggshells into the trash.

“ _Bi_ ,” Eric amends, some of the fight leaving him as he slips forward slightly against the counter. “Fuck, you’re serious about this. About me.”

“It’s been a long time coming,” Jack admits, taking a chance and sliding up beside Eric to wrap his arm around the other man’s waist.“Years.”

Bitty laughs wetly before Jack realizes he’s crying.

“We can’t do this right now,” Bitty whispers, even as he leans into Jack’s touch. “I need my contract secured, I need to make sure I won’t get the blame for turning you gay. We need to get through the playoffs — I don’t want to be remembered as your boyfriend, hon. I’ve worked hard for a bigger existence than that.“

“I won’t let you get punished because I’ve been a coward,” Jack says shortly. “That’s not how this works.”

“ _Jesus_ ,” Bitty sniffs before abandoning the bowl he’s mixing and turns to crowd in closer to Jack.

“Please kiss me again,” he asks, eyes wet and nose red.

“Okay,” Jack answers, thumbing away a tear and leaning down to press his lips against Eric’s.

When they separate, Bitty rests a hand over Jack’s heart and says, “You can only control the narrative when no one else has a story they want to tell about you. Your mother told me that. And I’m not looking at you because if I do I’ll start crying again.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“It’s about what I want _us_ to do,” Bitty whispers, keeping his eyes trained on Jack’s chest. “We need to be smart about this. We need a plan.”

“I’m good at planning,” Jack says, running his hand along the curve of Eric’s waist.

“It’s why you’re a good Captain,” Bitty humors, dropping his head to Jack’s chest and sighing deeply. “But, I propose the following: until the season’s over, until contracts are sorted and we know if we’re taking home a Cup —“

Jack reaches out and knocks his knuckles twice against the wood cabinet closest to them; Eric does the same without question.

“ — We wait,” Bitty finishes, wrapping his arms around Jack’s stomach. “We just wait.”

“I don’t want to wait,” Jack protests, hugging back. 

“I know, honey,” Bitty whispers. “I don’t want to either but if we don’t do this the right way I could end up riding the pine in Vancouver or Houston, or I won’t have a job at all. Then where would we be?”

The oven pings to announce it’s finished preheating and Eric curses but doesn’t turn away. Jack squeezes tighter and relishes the way they sway back and forth, partially from exhaustion, partially resignation.

Up until this point, Jack hadn’t really considered the nuclear option worst case scenario step of going public. Coming out was one thing. Stepping out with a boyfriend, a teammate, was a whole other situation he couldn’t have predicted alone. What comes after the honeymoon?

“So, we have to wait,” Jack echoes, dropping his cheek against Bitty’s hair. “I don’t come out, we don’t date publicly, so, what _do_ we do?”

Jack can feel where Eric’s hands are clutching hard at his back.

“You and I, we keep quiet until the season is over. I don’t think we can risk doing anything that might make anyone else suspicious. We have to be unquestioningly professional.”

“But here? At home?” Jack asks, getting a hand under Bitty’s chin to push him to look up. 

“Here? Here, I really want to kiss you,” Bitty says sadly, eyes going red again in a way that makes Jack want to cry himself. 

Honestly, he just might.

“Why can’t you?”

“Because I won’t _stop_ ,” Bitty laments, chin wobbling. “And I’ll fuck up and call you sweet-heart in a scrum or I’ll kiss you where everyone can see and I’ll ruin the team and my career and all this progress will be for nothing.”

Jack moves to protest but Eric stops him, crying outright, now. 

“Look, I know it’s stupid! Because you’re right here and I’m here and we should just be ourselves and it can be okay but I need a few weeks. Then we can talk about a secret romance and growing old together. Please?”

“Can I still hug you?” Jack asks, trying and failing to hide his devastation.

“ _God_ , yes,” Bitty laughs sadly. “We just can’t do anything we haven’t already.”

“But I kissed you already,” Jack hedges. “That should count.”

“Tonight,” Bitty amends, wiping his face on Jack’s shirt. “Tonight we can fool around a bit because I’m sad and a little horny and I’ve secretly wanted to grope your ass for half a decade. But after that, we’re hands off until the post-season.”

 Jack takes Eric's wrist and lowers his hand until Bittle has a palm-full of 'Zimmermann Charm'.

"I've been secretly wanting you to grope me for half a decade," Jack says, leaning in to kiss away the remaining tears on Eric's face. "I hope I live up to the hype."

In the end, they don't do much more than touch. They're exhausted, they have practice in the morning, and somehow years-long love confessions don't make for the best pillow talk when they're followed immediately by harsh realities. Instead, they lie on  Jack's bed, stripped to their underwear, running fingers over muscles and scars, clamoring for a measure of intimacy that will tide them both over through the coming weeks.

" _I'm sorry_ ," Jack whispers, running a thumb over Bitty's lower lip in the pre-dawn light. "I should have been braver."

" _You're plenty brave, hon,_ " Bitty whispers back, still drawing impossible symbols on the skin of Jack's stomach. " _We just have bad timing._ "

They fall asleep curled together, just like Jack wanted, but wake up sprawled apart; somehow with Bittle's foot next to Jack's face. It isn't romantic but it's practical and as they pull on their clothes for practice, stumble around the kitchen blending shakes and cleaning up the unmade dessert from the night before, Jack knows he can wait.

They have ninety percent of a relationship already.

 

* * *

 

**XI.**

 

Jack hits the boards, catching the outline of a screaming Aeros fan just before a third-line defenseman elbows Jack’s face into the glass.

 _“—FUCK OFF’A ME—_ “ Jack throws his elbow back and slips out but he can feel the sharp bite of broken skin from where his mask has nicked his cheek. A whistle blows but he knows he isn’t the reason — regardless he heads back to the bench to swap out.

“Davis got me,” Jack undoes the clasp on his helmet and shoves it up to let O’Mara clean up his cheek; he only catches a glimpse of the gauze but it’s dabbed with a bright, jarring red. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah? You’re bleeding,” Eric taunts, doing a damn good job keeping the concern out of his voice.

“He’s fine,” O’Mara agrees, getting level to track Jack’s eyes with a small flashlight.

“You want me to get back?” Tater offers, smacking his gloves together before Coach Bellafonte whips his notebook at the back of Tater’s helmet in warning.

“We don’t need any more penalties, Mashkov.”

“So, he can bruise up our lead scorer?” Bittle argues over Jack’s shoulder, prompting Coach’s lips to set in a hard frown. “We aren’t going to do anything?”

Marty’s gaze is still trained on the game when he says, “We just need to get through this period unscathed, alright boys? We can talk strategy in the locker room.”

“He’s not usually this rough,” Eric says, keeping his voice low so only Jack can hear. “I don’t know what’s going on.”

“29?” Jack looks at the opposing bench and realizes Davis is watching them, stone-faced and focused. Then he realizes Davis isn’t looking at Jack, he’s watching Tater, and Jack _knows_ that look. Angry resignation. Jealousy.

“ _Tabarnak_ ,” Jack hisses when the crowd roars at an almost goal.

“Like, _one_ time,” Eric chews on his mouthguard, refusing to look at Jack. “Not even. He kept saying he wasn’t really gay so I bailed.”

“Does he know about Tater?”

“Probably,” Eric admits, gaze flicking to Jack briefly. “We weren’t discrete.”

“ _Understatement_ ,” Jack chirps, pulling himself up when he gets the familiar shoulder tap. “Watch yourself, Tater,” Jack redirects, climbing over the boards. “29 has your number.”

The warning is misplaced.

Five minutes later Jack looks up and sees Davis _isn't_  flying toward Tater -- who has completely missed Jack's warning -- he's going for _Eric_.

Jack drops his pursuit of the puck and doubles back to the blue line, yelling, " _BITTLE,DIVE _—_ "_

Bitty barely gets the message, dropping low when Davis goes high, and Jack's still deep in the thick of it when someone's stick goes up and catches him under his visor.

Jack blacks out before he hits the ice.

 

* * *

 

**XII.**

 

Jack comes to in the locker room with a brace around his neck and a paramedic shining a penlight in his eyes; he knows immediately he's done for the season -- it's not even a question he needs to ask as they bundle him into the back of an ambulance for x-rays. 

They're only in the first round and he's  _done_. 

 _"Is Bitty okay?"_ Jack fumbles the words around his swollen lips and when Georgia appears he can't quite focus on her face. 

"Everyone's alright, Jack. We're just worried about you, right now."

 _"_ _I'm_ s'rry _, George,"_ he tells his assistant GM as they secure the gurney. _"I ruined it."_  

"He's pretty out of it," the paramedic advises. 

"That wasn't your fault, Jack," she runs a knowing hand down his arm, half hanging out of the vehicle like she wants to come with but can't justify it. "They're going to take you to get checked out, I'm going to let everyone know you're going to be alright."

" _I'm s'rry_ ," he repeats, fighting a losing battle against the pain numbing his thoughts. He knows he can blame the tears that follow on the concussion, so he doesn't fight it; not that he could if he tried, but it's nice to dream.

_"Ah, hold on!"_

 Jack's vision is blurry but he can make out a man jogging up to the back of the ambulance while the paramedic holds the door.

"Hey, we have to go before we get swarmed," the driver mutters from behind Jack. 

"You wanna tell Bob- _fucking_ -Zimmermann he can't ride with us, be my guest," the paramedic yells back. Seconds later, Jack's father scrambles onto the bench beside him.

" _Tabarnak_ ," Bob wastes no time pulling Jack into a loose hug, careful of his injuries. "Look at you. You fucked up your face real nice, bud. How many teeth you lose?"

Jack opens his mouth for inspection instead of answering and Bob laughs in a pained way Jack can't remember having heard before. 

"We'll need to get you on the good stuff, eh? So you can't feel a thing," Bob says with forced levity, tapping the back of Jack's hand. "But, hey, your boy dropped gloves. Went after the guy that clipped you. Didn't get far but it's the thought that counts, eh?"

 _"My boy,"_ Jack can feel he's crying again.

 _"Crisse,"_ Bob straightens up and strokes Jack's hair gently, careful of the brace. "Hey, hey, you're okay."

 _"No Bits,"_ Jack moans, leaning back against his pillow. _"No cup."_

"What's a ' _Bits_ '?" The paramedic asks, nudging Bob aside apologetically to press gauze against the sluggishly bleeding cut across Jack's cheek. 

Bob plays dumb and Jack cries harder.

 

* * *

 

**XIII.**

 

They tell him he has a Grade 3 concussion, a hairline fracture in his jaw, and four teeth damaged badly enough they’ll require extraction. He’s done for the season and he’s looking at months of recovery but he’ll be fine.

Eventually.

Jack’s pride is wounded more than anything else, which may only be the meds talking because he is in a lot of pain.

“Knock-knock?”

Jack blinks up from his hands and sees Bitty peeking in from the hallway.

“ _Bits_ ,” Jack greets clumsily, unable to really focus on what Bittle is carrying. “We win?”

“We did, Hon. We’re going to round two. How are you feeling?”

“I broke my face,” Jack explains.

“Oh, you poor thing, that wasn’t your fault,” Bitty soothes in the way Jack loves before turning on his father. “How is he really?”

Jack tries to give a thumbs up and only succeeds in lifting his hand in a fist, which the other men in the room watch with amusement.

“Not as bad as he could be but it’s still a lot of damage. We have an oral surgeon coming in the morning to look at his jaw,” Bob explains wryly, tapping a finger on Jack’s extended fist. “He’s fucked six ways from Sunday.” 

“ _I wish,”_ Jack interrupts, trying to fist-bump his father. “ _I wanna get fucked._ ”

“Yeah, I know you do, buddy,” Bob agrees, turning on a red-faced Bittle. “Speaking, I’m glad to see you two worked things out,” Bob says, slapping a hand on Eric’s shoulder. “I know Jack was all tied up in knots about —“

“— _Papa,_ ” Jack interrupts, resisting the urge to throw his water glass at his father. _“Il ne sait pas.”_

“You’re so out of it you forgot I can understand you. What don’t I know, now?” Bitty asks, easing into the vacant seat beside Jack’s bed. “Do I want to know?”

“Oh,” Bob’s smile drops when he looks back at Eric’s confused face. “I’m just, ah, I’ll leave you boys alone, then?”

The second the door closes behind Bob, Bitty is up and hovering, any illusion of composure lost as his chin crinkles like he’s trying not to cry.

“Are you…mad at me?” Jack’s still out of it enough that he can’t quite track Bitty’s emotions.

“Honey, I was worried you were _dead,”_ Bitty stresses, tangling a hand in his hair and pulling in the nervous way he usually only does after a bad interview. “I mean, I knew you weren’t but there was so much blood and you wouldn’t wake up, then Davis started talking shit trying to defend himself and I just —“

Bitty’s free hand is at his side, clenching at nothing but air so Jack reaches out and takes the few fingers he can reach.

“I’m okay,” Jack fumbles around his swollen lips while Bitty laughs in disbelief.

“Oh, really? What year is it?”

“This year,” Jack counters, the joke falling flat when Bitty reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a familiar stuffed rabbit.

“ _Lapin!”_

“I know how much you love Señor Bun,” Bitty sets the plush on Jack’s lap. “It seemed appropriate. You got hurt and my brain just shut down. Jesus, Jack, what the fuck were you _thinking_? I was so scared,” Bitty whispers, adjusting his grip on Jack’s hand.

“He was gonna hurt you,” Jack explains, and Bitty laughs wetly.

“Yeah, I guess he was. You know, with your face all puffy like that I can almost forget how attractive you are.”

 _“Shallow,”_ Jack chides, growing drowsy. “ _I’d still love you even if you were gross_.”

If Jack were less concussed, he’d catch the way Bitty’s eyes tear up before he scoots closer to the bed, but Jack’s sustained minor brain damage and he’s _very_ tired.

“Honey, I know you’re out of it and you probably won’t remember any of this, but,” Bitty lifts Jack’s hand, pressing his lips against Jack’s knuckles. “I know what you did for me and when you’re feeling better we’re going to figure this out for real. You and I. Okay? I don’t want to lose you.” Bitty eases himself down again and wraps Jack’s pliant fingers around Señor Bun. “Please never do that again. I'll see you when you wake up, okay? I love you. ”

“… _’Kay, Bits_ ,” Jack mumbles, finding it hard to keep his eyes open. “ _Love you, too._ ”

 

* * *

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like it, please leave a kudos or a comment! I love hearing from you!


	4. Chapter 4

**XIV.**

 

It's been three months since the Falconers were kicked out of the playoffs. Three months since the concussion. Three months since the surgery. Three months since Jack and Eric sat down with the NHL Constitution and seriously started planning a future together.

"You know what I hate," Jack sighs, turning from the window to find his mother emerging from the cockpit with a bottle of something that looks like champagne before dropping into the seat across from him, pouring into one of the flutes balanced in her other hand. "I hate that I _know_ this weekend is going to be fine. I've met Eric's family, multiple times, nothing terrible is going to happen, and yet," Jack holds up one of his hands, showing off a minor tremor.

"Well, you got your father's talent and my mental illness," Alicia chides. "Because nothing says sophistication and good breeding like generalized anxiety."

"Thank you, again," Jack chirps, dropping his hand when he notices his mother's voice is off, somehow.

“Oh, sweetheart, don’t be so blue, the Bittles already love you! And they're going to _adore_ us if I have any say in the matter. I was on the phone with Suzanne just last night, we’ve practically planned the wedding.”

Jack's heart rate spikes before he realizes she's kidding and has to pass off an almost panic attack as a joke.

“Why do you sound like Katherine Hepburn?”

“Because, darling, I lost a bet with your father and the alternative was something indecent I have neither the time nor the energy to plan. So, I get to do his favorite impression until we land.”

“You can’t just lie to me, can you? That’s no longer in this family’s wheelhouse?”

Alicia grins and hands him a glass of something purple and fruity. Definitely not champagne.

“It’s just sparkling blackberry juice, did you really think I’d give you alcohol this soon after a head injury?”

“It’s been months,” Jack protests, scooting up in his seat and taking a drink.

“ _You still getting headaches?_ ” Bob yells from the cockpit.

“Sometimes?” Jack calls back, cognizant of his father’s headset.

“ _Then no alcohol.”_

“Captain’s orders,” Alicia teases, sipping at her own drink. “Now, what can we do to make this easier on you?”

“You can _not_ use a 30s affectation when you see his family?”

Jack watches Alicia purse her lips and contemplate the request. He's seen the expression many times before and braces himself for a monologue.

“Seems to me you’re being a bit judgmental, always raining on my parade your intolerance infuriates me. I should think, of all people —"

Oh, Jack knows this one well.

“— _A writer should need tolerance!_ ” Jack laments, interrupting his mother and burying as much of his accent as possible. “ _The fact is you’ll never — you can’t be a first-rate writer or a first-rate human being until you’ve learned to have some small regard for human frailty.”_

Jack holds up his glass, contemplating it dramatically, watching his mother fight laughter.

 _“Aren’t the geraniums pretty, Professor? Is it not a handsome day that begins, Professor,”_ Jack trails off when he hears his father clapping from the front of the plane.

“I should have been an actor but you raised me in Pittsburgh and Montreal instead of Los Angeles so now I _sound like this_ ,” Jack leans into his accent so heavily his mother snorts juice up her nose and begins coughing. "That's on you. You have to live with the monster you've created."

“Oh, pish, that’s your new jaw, not your dialect coach. Who, if I recall, you hated.” Alicia recovers roughly, fanning her face as she tears up. “Anyway, the first time I put you on a stage you cried but the first time your father put you on ice you sang.”

“That’s a good line,” Jack laughs, looking back out the window at the Blue Ridge Mountains. “You should write it down and make sure it goes into the biography.”

“Noted. Now, darling, back to the matter at hand. The Bittles. Your father and I have some ideas just in case things get a little, ah, weird.”

“Weird _how_?”

“Your father has spent an unflattering amount of time Facebook stalking Eric’s family. In the _extremely unlikely_ event things get tense,” Alicia continues, undaunted, opening her carry-on to pull out a large, worn leather journal Jack has definitely seen before. Made from saddle leather, tanned with hairspray, blood, sweat, and tears, Alicia Zimmermann’s infamous ‘ _Brown Book_ ’ is a journal that existed before Jack was born and will likely outlive them all.

“ _Maman_ ,” Jack says cautiously. “We aren’t going to _war_ with Eric’s family.”

“Of course not, sweetheart, but one must take every precaution,” she reaches toward her face, moving to touch her lip before catching herself. "We just want this weekend to go well for you." 

“I know, _Maman_ — again, we’re not getting married and you can’t bribe his family.”

“ _Not yet you aren't_!” Bob yells from the cockpit. _“Did your Mother get out her book?”_

“For Suzanne, we have copies of your grandmere’s family recipes. The _good_ ones,” Alicia glosses Bob's question, patting the cover firmly. “For Richard and the family, if need be, skybox tickets for a Falcons pre-season game, one that _doesn’t_ overlap with Madison High’s football schedule. Should that fall through, we also have dugout Braves tickets.”

“What is this, my dowry?”

“I thought you said you weren’t getting married?” His mother smiles indulgently. “And yes, of a sort. We can consider it a gesture of goodwill for when we inevitably embarrass ourselves, or their family.”

“We aren’t even together yet,” Jack shoots what he hopes is a warning look at his mother while he fishes his phone from his pocket. 

"Oh, honey, haven't you fucked yet?"

 _"Crisse, Maman!"_ Jack gathers his things and moves to the chair across the aisle, trying to be a petulant as he can while his parents howl with laughter.

 _‘My parents are treating this weekend like its an assault on Normandy’,_ Jack texts Eric. _‘Hope your family is ready to be charmed to death. Unrelated, don't believe anything they say about me.’_

A few seconds later he gets a response: _‘Oh, hon, if hospitality is a competition you’re playing a losing game. On Bittle home turf, no less. My mother’s fixing to roll y’all back to the airport.’_

_‘Looking forward to it. Can’t train, might as well enjoy eating until I burst. They still don’t know it’s me yet, right?’_

_‘Still a secret and they’ve promised no extra family. Just Moo-Maw tomorrow morning. Aunt Judy can’t keep a secret to save her life so the last thing I need is her stumbling in on family dinner with a hall of famer, an actress, and my mildly concussed boyfriend.Though I am kinda enjoying the thought of seeing my Mother’s head explode when she realizes it’s you.’_

_‘Oh am I your boyfriend now?’_ Jack teases, not feeling the need to hide his smile when his mother makes kissy faces at him.

The response this time comes in the form of a Snapchat. Jack clicks the notification and finds a screenshot of  _'Bittle-Zimmermann'_ across the back of a Falconers away jersey. It appears to be displayed on the back of one Shitty B. Knight. He doesn't have time to grab a picture before the image is lost.

_'Not in this for the short term, hon.'_

Jack's heart is in his throat as he tries to comprehend what the message really means. Does Bittle think they're going to get married one day? 

 _'You know, we don't take last names in Quebec,_ ' Jack texts back, fingers shaking. _'Don't think the world could handle the awesome power of our hyphenated names'_

_'Maybe not. but if you haven't figured it out yet, yes, you are my boyfriend. I'm making it official.'_

Another Snapchat: a video of Eric, shirtless to show off his toned muscles and Georgia tanned skin, blowing a kiss. 

Again, nothing to save.

There's a numbness that accompanies the reminder that this will be their relationship for the foreseeable future. No incriminating photos. No social media. The rules put in place to protect Jack's reputation. His mental health. He takes a breath and eases out of his head and back into his body. He's trying, possibly harder than ever before, and it's not his fault he's not ready to take the leap yet. There's so much at stake and so much time to accomplish what they want to, and Jack doesn't have to do it alone. Not anymore.

' _I can't wait to kiss you'_

In response, Bitty sends an emoji of a single blue heart.

 

* * *

 

 **XV.**  

 

“Suzanne!” Bob yells when the door opens on the Bittle family, spreading his arms wide and engulfing her tiny frame in a hug. “You haven’t aged a day. _Richard_ ,” Bob turns and pulls Eric’s father into a surprised hug as well. “You look well enough.”

“Good to see you, Bob, you can say it,” Coach slaps Bob on the back, “watching Junior play has taken years off my life.”

“On that, we can agree,” Bob admits. “Jack's the cause of all this grey in my hair.”

"Yeah, I bet I am," Jack agrees, letting himself be smothered by Eric's mother while the man himself fights laughter from the foyer. "See you back there, Bittle."

"Just letting Mama get it all out of her system, you know how she loves you more than she loves me."

Jack takes a moment to enjoy the sight of Eric in his natural habitat, wearing robin's egg blue shorts that show off his thighs and a clean linen shirt that must have been purchased recently because it doesn't strain around his chest like some of the ones at home in Providence. 

Bitty catches him looking and offers a cheeky wink.

"Oh hush," Suzanne chides. "Now, let's get you all inside, we were expecting you a bit earlier and we've got everything set out ready to eat."

Jack's mother immediately launches into a heated condemnation of Atlanta traffic while they Suzanne leads his parents to the kitchen, but Jack hangs back a beat and quickly finds himself tugged into the bathroom. 

"Hey, honey," Bitty breathes, crowding Jack against the door for a quick kiss. "Missed you."

"It's been a week," Jack gets a hand on Eric's hip, thumb dipping under the hem of his shirt to brush his boyfriend's abs. "Too long."

"We have brisket," Bitty explains between kisses. "Brisket, and ribs, and --"

_"Dicky! Honey? Where did you put the tea?"_

Bitty freezes and drops his forehead to Jack's chest.

"Guess it doesn't make much sense to get worked up before dinner."

"I can blow you after?" Jack offers, giving Eric's butt a quick squeeze. 

"Way after," Bitty agrees, before yelling, _"In the basement fridge, mama!"_

"Let's eat," Jack says, walking Eric back from the door so he can slip out. "Get this over with. Then you and I can get reacquainted without having to hide in your guest bath."

"I'm holding you to that."

They make it to the dining room with only minor suspicion and manage to make it through most of the meal without accidentally outing themselves. Of course, by the time the sides are gone and the conversation has turned to Jack's recovery, he realizes they're running out of good opportunities.

Jack clears his throat and nudges Eric's foot under the table, ignoring his parents' no doubt self-indulgent expressions.

"Bud, I think now's as good a time as any," Jack says, just loudly enough to get the Bittle's attention.

Eric nods and takes a quick sip of water before turning to his parents with a cautious smile.

"So, ah, I told you I had some news," he starts. "And Jack is going to tell you what it is. Jack?"

The entire table rolls into a soft rumble of laughter when Jack shakes his head and says, "Nope, you aren't getting off that easy. Go on." 

“Ugh, fine, some help you are. Mama, Daddy, Jack and I are, um,” Bitty pauses, looking to Jack for support, in response Jack rests his hand over Eric’s. “Together. Jack and I are together. Or we’re planning to be. I mean, we are, just —”

Jack has flashbacks to the moment he told his own parents when Suzanne hollers, _“I knew it,"_ before slapping a hand over her mouth, cheeks going scarlet.

“I knew it,” she whispers again to Coach, “I knew he was seeing someone. I called it. I’m getting the wine —”

“Suzie, sit down, Dicky’s barely gotten the words out and you’re running off before he’s finished. Alright, can’t say we weren’t hoping this was the case with how well you two have been getting on,” Coach wipes his mouth with his napkin, hiding a smile. “But what do you mean ‘planning’?”

“If we’re being honest we’ve been dancing around each other since college,” Eric explains, giving Jack’s hand another squeeze. “But we aren’t really in a position to be anything close to public.”

Bob gestures at Jack with his glass, “You know how many conversations I’ve had with this one about your son? Several. He’s been working up the courage for a long time.”

As their parents lose themselves in congratulatory conversations about who knew first, Jack squeezes Eric’s hand and jokes, “Only took getting bashed in the head to get over myself, eh?”

“That’s not what happened,” Bitty says under his breath, for Jack’s ears only. “Is that what you remember?”

“No,” Jack whispers, turning to notice the furrow between Eric’s brows, the worried downturn of his lips. “But I can’t very well say you turned me down. How would that look?”

When Jack turns away from Eric’s relieved face, he sees Suzanne staring at him.

“I can read lips, you know,” Suzanne accuses. “What’s this now about Dicky turning you down?”

“Um,” every eye is on Jack in an instant.

“He turned you down?” Bob questions, intrigued. “You didn’t tell me that.”

“Sweetheart?” Alicia prods gently.

Bitty buries his face in his hands and groans.

“He did,” Jack sighs, leaning into the moment. “Mid-way through the season. My timing was terrible. He thought I was drunk —”

“Jesus, Jack, don’t tell the story!” Bitty snaps, cheeks flaming. “It’s a bad story!”

“Well, now, hold on, Junior,” Coach interrupts. “You’ve been making moon-eyes at Jack since before you signed with Seattle.”

“At the time, it didn’t make sense,” Eric explains, casting a glance back at the Zimmermanns. “And I was feeling a little…ah, defeatist.”

“You need to elaborate, son,” Coach leans in with a critical eye on Jack.

“Daddy, you’re a _coach_ ,” Eric stresses. “You can’t think of even one good reason why my dating a teammate, who is also my Alternate Captain, might be a little questionable? How goin’ public might be a liability to the team?”

The entire table says ‘ _oh_ ’ at the same time, like a cresting wave.

“And yes,” Eric admits. “I thought he was drunk.”

“But I wasn’t drunk,” Jack amends, finishing his sweet tea. “Just tired and awkward.”

“So what’s the plan, now?” Suzanne asks, passing the pitcher to Jack. “If you can’t tell anyone?”

“We don’t really know,” Jack admits, catching his father’s eye. “This is somewhat uncharted territory.”

When Bob wipes his face and sets his napkin beside the barbecue sauce covered china plates Eric had explained were wedding gifts from his great-grandmother, Jack realizes he’s a little unsteady.

“I hope I’m not speaking out of turn, here,” Bob starts, noticing how Jack is dissociating. “I’m several decades removed but I’ve been in locker rooms with guys in similar situations. Not saying it wasn’t complicated for the ones involved but it was definitely overlooked in favor of team cohesion.”

It comes across more like an interview soundbite than a blessing and Jack winces.

“Our main concerns revolve around the likelihood that one of us might be traded or sent down if we come clean to management. Jack’s vulnerable after his injury and my contract doesn’t have a no-trade clause,” Eric explains, clear and concise like he’s been practicing in a mirror. He probably has.

Coach frowns and leans over to Jack’s father, brandishing his fork like a weapon.

“Now, Bob, I may not have been in the thick of it for as long as y’all have but I’ve seen your name floating around enough to know you could breeze into the Falconers front office if you saw fit. As long as you didn’t play favorites with Jack, you could pull an Elway.”

“Yeah, because Bettman would love having to deal with you on a weekly basis,” Jack laughs at the notion the same time Suzanne balks at her husband’s presumption.

“Ah, well, more like pull a Lemieux,” Bob admits sheepishly, casting an apologetic look at Jack. “Purchase a piece of the team and strong-arm a few contract renegotiations from an ownership position. I’d by lying if I said we haven’t considered the option, should it come to that.”

“Wait, seriously?” Jack’s humor leaves him.

“Oh, wow, that’s certainly something,” Eric breathes, leg bouncing enough under the table that Jack can feel it. “Surely that’s a conflict of interest?”

“Just a _little_ ,” Jack answers, keeping an eye on his father. “Right?”

“The General Manager position would be a conflict on paper,” Alicia says. “But ownership is a different issue altogether. Normally minority owners aren’t so much involved in the day to day.”

“ _Crisse de calisse_ ,” Jack leans back in his chair and covers his face, counting to five. “Because that’s what would make this situation more bearable — for me to come out and for you to _buy_ the fucking franchise to prevent retaliation. I might as well retire now. Save myself more accusations of nepotism.”

“ _Easy_ ,” Bob warns. “That was the last option and definitely the least realistic. You flatter me if you think we can afford to buy a playoff contender.”

“The point of all of this is that we can help if things get too hard. You two don’t have to go it alone,” his mother adds.

Eric’s hand is on Jack’s again, offering a supportive squeeze to get Jack’s attention.

“Okay, look,” Bob holds up his hands. “Worst case scenario if the Falconers try anything discriminatory, we can step in. That’s all this is. Just an option.”

Jack huffs and stares at his hands — at Bitty’s hand on his — and walks back his anger. He’s not a teenager being herded into a career, he’s an adult, a _professional_. A professional with connections provided by his family’s success that could prevent a lot of future heartaches.

He can’t hide it. He might as well embrace it.

“You don’t need to intervene on my behalf,” Jack tells them firmly. “I get to make my own mistakes. But if anyone tries to pull anything with Eric you can do whatever you want.”

It feels right to say but it doesn’t get the reaction he wants. Certainly not when Eric slides his chair back to stand, a scowl on his face.

“That’s mighty chivalrous of you, Jack,” Eric chides, picking up his plate. “You want to throw your jacket over puddles in the arena, too? Hold the door for me? I’d personally love to have an owner who isn’t a 75-year-old windbag that tries to gossip about closeted players every time I see him,” Eric motions between the two of them with his free hand. “We have our plan, already: keep this on the down-low until post-season then all bets are off.”

Eric takes Jack’s plate, rounds the table to collect his parent’s dishes, before stopping beside Bob and Alicia.

“Our lead scorer — your handsome, _severely_ concussed son — is going to be completely healthy and have gotten over his obsession with being a white knight, which means the Falconers will be getting a Cup next season. So, if you two would like to play owner, start the paperwork now while you can still afford us.”

The table sits in silence when Eric disappears into the kitchen to put away the dirty dishes. Jack stares numbly at a point on the wall and tries to sort through his jumbled thoughts because he _is_ still recovering. And all of his and Eric’s fears are entirely based on the Falconers management forcing them apart. Something unconfirmed and entirely avoidable.

“Honey,” Suzanne says gently, getting Jack’s attention. “Are you okay?”

“Obviously we would never do anything to make you uncomfortable,” his mother adds, on eggshells because Jack knows he probably looks like he’s a million miles away, probably because he’s floating through space after getting drop-kicked into orbit by his boyfriend.

“Yeah, no, I get that,” Jack says finally, blinking the daze from his eyes. “I just think I love him.”

Alicia laughs so hard she snorts and has to cover her face.

 _“I heard that!”_ Eric calls from the kitchen. _“No more shop talk, it’s time for dessert.”_  

While the rest of the table rises, Jack lingers in his seat thinking over the finer details of the conversation before his father rests a gentle hand on his shoulder and gives him a supportive shake.

 _“You weren’t supposed to know about all that,”_ he says softly, switching to French as the room clears. _“I never want to overshadow your success, I just want to protect you. Always have. Feels like the only way to accomplish that anymore is to throw money at a problem until it goes away.”_

Jack reaches up and sets his hand over his father’s, keeping his eyes forward because it’s always easier that way.

 _“I want this to be my life,”_ Jack admits, choosing his words carefully. _“If I can get a Cup with the Falconers, with Bits…I want that for him. For me. Us.”_

Jack trails off. His father knows exactly what that would mean. Validation. Legacy. No more screened letters calling Eric a fluke. A publicity stunt.

 _“I can’t promise you’ll get there,”_ Bob admits, tone as gentle as Jack’s ever heard. _“But your best chance at success is in the other room right now serving your mother pie.”_

 _“Guess he is,”_ Jack huffs, taking the hint, only to be pulled into a tight hug when he stands.

 _“Love you, kid,”_ Bob breathes wetly when Jack hugs back. _“All my life, you’re the best thing I ever did. If you ever need help, you just need to ask.”_

Jack's reply is lost with a squeal of delight from the next room.

“Strawberry Rhubarb?” Alicia swoons, taking her plate reverently. “That’s my favorite!”

“Oh, we know,” Coach grins. “You think Suzie didn’t have Junior out doing recon on y'all?”

Jack watches Eric smile so wide at the praise he can count his teeth. Reflexively, Jack tries to mimic the gesture and finds he can’t quite get there; he’s still healing.

“Strawberry Rhubarb for Alicia,” Eric ticks off his fingers, “Classic Apple for Jack, and for Bob, since he insisted on 'authentic' southern cuisine, we made a good old-fashioned Chess Pie. Also a Pecan for good measure.”

“Chess pie?” Bob questions, examining the dish excitedly. “Looks like  _Crème Brûlée.”_

“Well, it’s a custard filling so you’re half right,” Suzanne laughs, cutting a thick wedge for him. “My mother always called it ‘Sugar Pie’.”

“ _Sugar Pie_ ,” Bob echoes reverently, digging into his serving the second it leaves Suzanne’s hands. "Alicia used to call me that. It must be fate."

Eric finishes slicing up the pies and when the focus is off them and back on the food, Jack finds Eric nudging him gently toward the back porch.

"I want to show you something out back."

"Oh?" Jack follows, casting only the briefest of glances back at their parents, still wonderfully distracted. 

“So, this is going really well, right?” Eric teases once they get out on the deck alone. “I mean we already knew our parents got along like a house on fire, it’s still a relief to know — _mmmph_!“

Jack cuts Eric off by pulling him into a kiss, which the other man sinks into without a fight.

“I love you,” Jack whispers against Eric’s cheek once they separate. “I know I say it a lot but it doesn’t make it any less true.”

“Let’s see how you feel when we’re thirty games into the regular season,” Eric huffs a laugh before snuggling closer.

“I’ll love you more,” Jack declares. “Because even though it’ll be a tired, achy kind of love, I’ll get to go to sleep next to you every night.”

“Not on roadies, though,” Eric bemoans. “Guess you’ll just have to sleep with Tater.”

“Now, that’ll make two of us,” Jack chirps before Eric slugs him in the arm.

“Oh, lord, that reminds me. We’ll have to tell Alexei about us.”

“You think he’ll be okay? Didn’t you call it off because you started playing with us?”

“I wouldn’t worry about that — he’s a big softie and he loves you more than he ever liked sleeping with me. Besides, he’s got a girlfriend now.”

Even with the door shut, Jack can still hear their parents laughing in the dining room, likely at one of his father’s awful stories. It’s comforting in a way Jack can’t remember it ever having been before. It’s blissfully normal.

Eric's phone vibrates in his pocket and Jack can feel it against his thigh. He's tired enough the sensation makes him chuckle.

"Hell's bells," Bitty breathes, fumbling to turn off the ringer.

"Your pants are too tight," Jack chirps, running a possessive hand down Eric's arm when his own phone goes off as well, buzzing a staccato beat in his back pocket. It's the alert Jack has set for his parents; they must be trying to get them both back inside without interrupting. 

"Your dad started a chat," Bitty explains and before Jack has a chance to get in his password Eric's phone is under his nose. it's a picture of two orca whales touching their noses together. 

"It's whales," Jack recognizes numbly, stuck somewhere in his own head while Eric laughs. "Papa sent whales."

"Well, yeah, it's whales, what does he think we're out here doing? Making out? Lord, we should go back inside just so they don't think we're giving the neighbors a show --"

“Be honest with me. Do you really think my parents should buy the Falcs?” Jack interrupts, sliding his hand down to capture Eric's wrist before he can turn away. 

The reaction is subtle but instant and it's impossible to miss the way Eric's posture seizes, tense from head to toe as he takes his time transitioning back into the seriousness of their earlier conversation.

“They don’t need to be vocal about it," Bitty hedges, giving Jack's fingers a quick squeeze. "They don’t need to be anything more than silent partners but I think, if we’re expecting anyone in this league to make progress beyond _‘look, the first gay hockey player_ ’, we’re going to have to force the issue with ownership groups on the league's level. I can’t think of anyone better to spearhead the offensive than a beloved Hall of Famer.”

There's nothing speculative about the way Eric's speaking and Jack feels like he's been struck when he realizes exactly what Eric is talking about.

“This isn’t about them,” Jack says, nudging Eric’s chin up so he can get a look at his boyfriend’s determined face. “You want Papa to buy the team so you can get more players to come out. So _I_ can come out.”

“It doesn't have to be the Falcs, Jack. It could be anyone. You have any idea how many times I've been told someone would come out if they weren’t scared they’d end their own careers? Jesus, I know for a fact Nathan McGill’s contract wasn’t renewed because of _unsubstantiated_   _rumors_ he might be gay. Not even proof. And that was _this_ year! In _Vancouver_! It's _still_ a problem -- being gay is _still_ a problem to be managed, we're proof of that. I know it’s not practical but I want to try to put some pressure on these ancient assholes and I'm petty enough to abuse my connections to do so.”

Bitty worries his lip and balls his hand into a fist, lightly thumping Jack's chest as he composes himself.

"My legacy isn't going to be a half-dozen championship rings when I retire," Bitty flattens his hand again, this time over Jack's heart. "No matter how well I play, I'll always be remembered for _this,_ for who I love. Now, maybe it's God I have to thank or maybe it's something else entirely, but when I finally stopped fighting the idea that what I am will define how I'm remembered, I realized being _'first'_ means I have a chance to help change things from the inside out. Maybe I can help make life easier for the kids coming up, the ones like you and Kent who don't know any better than to accept what they're being given, no matter how much it costs. Hockey was never something I planned for, not in a million years, but I'll be damned if I don't leave a mark on this league when I go."

There aren't words for what Jack feels -- whatever emotion that does manage to manifest is too much to contain and his vision goes blurry. 

" _Bits._ "

"Oh, don't do that, you'll make me cry, too," Bitty laments, eyes going red and damp. "You big _moose_."

"What happened to _'Sweet Pea'_?" Jack laughs, scrubbing the tears from his eyes. 

"' _Sweet Pea'_ is for boys who don't make their boyfriends cry at their parent's house." 

There's another sharp bite of laughter from inside and Jack doesn't fight when Eric crowds back into his space for a hug.

"We should go back in," Bitty says, words muffled by Jack's shirt. "Get a second helping of one of the thousand pies I made today."

Jack drops his cheek to Eric's head, nose tickled by his boyfriend's cowlick.

"You shouldn't have to do this alone," Jack breathes, smiling at the way Eric's arms tighten.

"You're right, but the neat thing is now I don't have to," Bitty steps away so Jack can see the soft expression on his face. "I have you to help me."

"You do," Jack insists. "I'd put my face in front of a thousand sticks if I had to."

" _Moose,_ " Bitty laughs, the tension broken. "Please don't hurt yourself, maybe other people, but not yourself."

"One year," Jack swears, leaning in to kiss Bitty gently.

"One year," Bitty echoes, running a thumb over the new scar on Jack's jaw.

Another text buzzes in and Eric sighs when his checks the new message.

"Okay, _seriously_ , what is the deal with your father and the whales?"

 

 

* * *

 

* * *

 

 _ **Epilogue**_  

 

 

3-3 with less than a minute left in regulation. 

"Just like before," Eric calls, sliding into Jack's side before they set-up.

"Same as it ever was," Jack responds.

The boys pull through and get the puck to Jack while Bitty blitzes ahead, outpacing the d-man on his tail and circling behind the Schooners' net. It's entirely reflex -- just a flick of his wrist -- for Jack to send the puck sailing across the ice. He doesn't need to look to know Bitty has the shot.

The roar of the crowd drowns the goal siren and Jack looks up, catching a glimpse of the scoreboard before Tater's pulling him into a celly with Bitty and Boomer. It's over. No overtime shootouts. No late calls. Just a clean win in regulation. Someone's shaking him and Jack realizes he's still screaming.

They did it.

Somewhere in the crowd, Jack's parents are cheering with Eric's seated right beside them. Three years worth of Samwell Hockey alum aren't far behind. 

As the Falconers desert the bench, shoving Jack and Eric closer and closer together, Eric pushes his helmet off and when he looks up Jack's never seen anything more perfectly beautiful in his entire life. 

" _God, Bits,_ " Jack breathes, dropping his gloves to take Eric's face in his hands, safely surrounded by the team. " _I wish I could kiss you._ "

Eric rears back, a smile blossoming wide across his flushed face. 

" _Jack_ ," he laughs. " _You can_."

 

 


	5. Coda: Locker Room Talk (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack and Bitty flirt with danger by hooking up in the Falcs' locker room after practice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are all little chunks of fic taking place between the Madison reveal and the Cup win epilogue featuring small moments between Jack and Bitty while they're still hiding their relationship. This chapter is NSFW.

Jack stays in the showers so long his fingers prune and Snowy yells, _“Don’t forget to turn off the lights when you’re done jacking off!”_

“You wish you had my stamina!” Jack yells back, eyes shut against the warm spray. He needs this, to stand under the water for a half hour just because he can. 

When he finally drags his ass out of the showers, someone coughs from across the room and Jack startles, dropping the towel he’d been using to dry his hair and reflexively covering his dick. Jack’s eyes adjust and he sees Eric, not yet dressed, fighting a smile at his attempt at modesty.

“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” Eric sets aside his phone, rising from his stall so Jack can see he’s only wearing his compression shorts. “I was hoping to talk with you alone. Didn’t realize you were planning on a spa day.”

“Wasn’t feeling like talking,” Jack defends, grabbing the towel from the floor and wrapping it around his waist.

“Well, that’s too bad,” Eric chides, stepping up to Jack and poking an index finger right between his pecs. “We have so many things to discuss.”

Jack gives the room a quick once over, wary of any other surprises when Bittle presses his hand down firmly on Jack’s wet chest.

“No one’s here,” he assures, fingers sliding down Jack’s waist to pry his fingers loose of the towel. “Just you and me.”

“For someone so paranoid,” Jack reaches quickly to stop Eric’s wandering hand, catching the towel before it can drop. “You choose a lot of very public places to ‘ _talk_ ’.”

“Oh, um,” Eric tries to tug his hand away but Jack doesn’t release him.

“Are you absolutely sure there is no one else here?” Jack asks softly, still holding Bitty with one hand and his towel with another.

(The last thing in the world Jack needs is to be caught in the locker room of the Falconers’ practice facility getting handsy with a teammate. The absolute last thing.)

“A hundred percent,” Eric insists, flushing from his cheeks to his taut stomach. “I checked every stall and I locked everything myself.”

(The first thing, however —)

Jack drops the towel and tugs Bitty flush against him, relishing his partner’s warmth as Bitty clutches at his back.

 _“You scared me for a second there,”_ Bitty’s words are muffled by Jack’s chest. _“Gettin’ all serious.”_

“If you can sneak up on me, anyone can,” Jack drops his cheek to rest on Bitty’s hair, trying to ignore the way the waistband of Bitty’s compression shorts is rubbing against his dick.

“Didn’t want to leave you alone after practice,” Bitty pulls back, anchoring himself with Jack’s arms. “I saw you with O’Mara; you’ve been having more than your fair share of closed-door meetings.”

Jack’s semi fades a little while he hunts for the words he needs to convey the seriousness of the situation without undermining the moment because Bitty doesn’t need this weighing on him. It’s one thing for them to hide their relationship, it’s another for Jack to hide an issue pertaining to his career.

“My —“ Bitty gives Jack’s ass a quick squeeze in support, interrupting his thoughts. “—It’s just a bad week. My head’s still bothering me.”

“Yeah,” Bitty nods solemnly, moving his hand around to give Jack’s cock a sympathetic pat. “We knew that, that’s why you’ve been doing the extra cooldowns. Is it worse than that?”

“It’s taking too long,” Jack continues, trying to focus on Bitty’s fingers teasing his balls and not on O’Mara’s solemn warnings about pushing himself too hard.

“I’m sorry, hon,” Bitty sneaks a finger between Jack’s thighs, making him squirm. “Maybe I know a way to make you feel better?”

“Yeah?” Jack smiles, shaking loose some of his discomfort. “You do?”

 _“Maybe,”_ Bitty smiles slyly and wraps his hand around Jack, stroking lazily before picking up speed.

Jack’s going to come embarrassingly quick, as is usually the case when Bitty catches him somewhere dangerously public: the showers, a club lounge, that one time on the charter to Phoenix…

Jack gets a hand around Bitty’s throat and tugs him into a sloppy kiss. 

 _“The things I’m going to do to you when we get home,”_ Jack breathes into Bitty’s mouth.

“Promises, promises,” Bitty bites Jack’s lip and tugs.

That’s all he needs.

“What was that you said about stamina?” Bitty chirps, wiping his hand on Jack’s towel.

“You surprise me like that you’re getting quantity over quality,” Jack defends, nipping at Bitty’s ear. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“Good. Now get dressed so I can just take everything off you again when we get home.”

Jack’s ready for anything when he remembers his actual, planned schedule for the day.

“Fuck, I can’t, I have that thing — the Chamber of Commerce lunch,” Jack apologizes as Bitty’s smile drops. "It's PR, I promised Georgia —"

“Aww, I wanted to be frisky,” Bitty laments, knocking his forehead against Jack’s sternum. “I had a whole plan the seduce you.”

“Bud,” Jack motions to his waist and now flaccid cock. “Look at me. You did. Mission accomplished,” Jack slips his fingers under Bitty’s waistband. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t help you out, right now? Before I go?”

“Mmm, yeah?”

Jack slides to his knees and pulls down the leggings as he goes, resting when he’s eye-level with his boyfriend’s already weeping erection.

“I like seeing you,” Bitty admits, covering his blush with a hand when Jack laughs. "Gets me excited."

“Not a bad thing — I love that you like me,” Jack says before taking the head into his mouth and sucking _hard_.

Let it never be said Eric Bittle doesn’t know how to be discreet: Jack’s got his nose buried in the dusting of curls at the base of his partner’s dick before Bittle lets loose a breathy, _“Hon.”_

Jack lets his throat do most of the work once Bitty’s hands tangle in his hair but he can’t resist a gentle prod behind Eric’s balls to speed things up because they are in a dangerous spot and Jack has places to be. He feels a vein pulse under his tongue and pulls back a touch, sucking Bitty right through his orgasm.

“Fuck, hon, that was great,” Bitty breathes when Jack pulls off to spit in the trash can. “Same time tomorrow?”

“Ha, you wish,” Jack chirps, giving Eric a quick peck on the cheek before gathering his clothes. “How about I just see you at home?” 

"Don't forget your promise," Bitty chides, throwing on an old Samwell tee. "You promised to do things to me. I'm holding you to that."

"Goodbye, Eric," Jack waves him off with a cheeky wink.

"Goodbye, Jack," Eric blows a kiss before he slips out the door leaving Jack alone to get dressed.

He seriously contemplates skipping the luncheon.

(He doesn't.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked it, let me know! I just may keep adding to this AU ;)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! I'm really happy with how this one turned out and I'm grateful Y'all seem to love it so much!


End file.
